Death on a Vineyard Beach

by Philip R. Craig

  “Have you dated him or been at a party with him, or anything like that in the last few months. Say, since March?”

  She put the bit of cloth back where it had been before. “Yeah. We were at a party together in April. And when I got home from school in May, he and I caught a movie down at the Strand. Why?”

  “Did he ever tell you, or did you ever hear him tell anybody else, that his boss, a guy named Luciano Marcus, was going to go up to Boston to see a performance of Carmen?”

  She sat up, grinning. “Now, that’s about the last question I expected to hear. But, as a matter of fact, I think he did tell me that. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Did you ever tell anyone else?”

  “No. Why would I? I’d forgotten all about it till just now.”

  “Did you ever hear him give that information to anyone else?”

  “No. What’s so important about it, anyway?”

  “Maybe it isn’t important,” I said. Beyond her, across Tashmoo Pond, I could see her aunt Lillian’s house under the trees. There was a neat shed behind the house, and there were some conch or lobster pots stacked behind the shed. A path and wooden steps led from the shed down to a dock, where a dinghy and a Sunfish were tied.

  I looked back at Jean. “Your mom says that you and some of your friends were down for a couple of weekends last April. Was the party that you attended with Vinnie the one that happened the night your dad’s shotgun was stolen?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Now that you mention it. Say, what’s this all about?” She picked up a wristwatch from the floor and looked at it.

  “Can you tell me who was at that party?”

  She took off her dark glasses. Her eyes were very blue. “Gosh, I don’t know. Let me see… There was Vinnie and me, and Maggie Vanderbeck, and Peter Jeffers, that cop friend of hers up in Gay Head, and my cousin Freddy, and Benny What’s-his-name who came down with him that weekend with his girlfriend. Marsha was her name. First time on the island for those two, and they thought it was great.” She put on her thinking face. “A couple more people, maybe. But I forget who.”

  “If you remember, let me know.” I wrote my name, address, and telephone number on a piece of paper and gave it to her. “If you lose this, I’m in the book.”

  She looked at the watch again, and jumped to her feet. “I’ve got to get ready for work!”

  The late Jean Dings. I stepped aside and she went into the house. I looked again at the house across the water, then followed her.

  19

  I parked the Land Cruiser in the Vineyard Haven Steamship Authority parking lot, found a pay phone, and looked up the number for Toni Begay’s shop, hoping that Maggie Vanderbeck was still there. She was.

  “I just talked with Jean Dings,” I said. “She told me that several of you were at a party together last April. She told me that you were there, that Peter Jeffers was there, that she and Vinnie were there, and that her cousin Freddy was there with a couple of friends from Boston, Benny Something-or-other and a girl named Marsha. She says that there were a couple of other people there, too. Do you remember who they were?”

  “Sure,” said Maggie. “Neal Otis and Nancy Parks. Freddy was the odd man out. No girl. No wonder, either, if you ask me; he’s so moody lately, not like he used to be. But that night he tried to be fun. He danced with everybody else’s girl, and made the beer run while the rest of us went for a walk on South Beach, and I guess he had a good time. I remember it was a really warm night for April, and we had all the windows open.”

  “Jean Dings says that Vinnie told her that night about Luciano Marcus’s plans to go up to Boston to see Carmen. Did you hear him talking about that?”

  “You asked me about that this morning. No, I didn’t hear anything about that until today. But it was a party, with a lot of noise, so I probably wouldn’t have heard him talking about it unless I was listening. He never said anything to me about it.”

  “Do you remember anything in particular about the party. Anything unusual, or different?”

  There was a pause. Then she said: “No. It was just a party. We had some discs, and we danced and drank beer. A couple of people overdid it. Nothing unusual. Just a party.”

  I thanked her very much for her time, and went back to the truck.

  There are a lot of roads and driveways that lead down to the east side of Tashmoo Pond, and I have never been very good at keeping them straight, so it didn’t surprise me when I made a few wrong explorations before I finally found Jimmy Souza’s house. There was a wide spot in the road, where his driveway left it. The FOR SALE sign at the end of the driveway was painted in bright colors, and told me which realtor I could call if I was an interested buyer.

  The house, when I got to it, wasn’t as grand as that owned by the movie star whose place bordered Jimmy’s, but it was a comfortable, neat home, only slightly gone to seed since Jimmy’s fortunes had declined. Still, it had a sad look about it, although that impression might have been only a reflection of my own melancholy mood.

  I parked in the empty yard, got out, and looked across the water at the house of John Dings. Dings’s back deck, where recently I’d stood, was in plain view, as were the wooden steps leading from it down to the small dock below.

  I walked down to the shed behind the house, and went around back, where the fishing pots were stacked. Close up, I could see that all of them were in need of repair. I looked down at Jimmy’s dock, where the Sunfish and dinghy were tied. Then I walked back to the house and knocked on the door.

  Nobody home. I’d been hopeful, but I wasn’t surprised, since there were no cars in the yard. Jimmy was probably looking for work, trying to make the best buck he could manage while staying constantly drunk. And his wife and kids were no doubt working somewhere, trying to keep the wolves from the door as long as possible, while Jimmy slid down into the pit. Of course, Fred might be out looking for me. The idea irked me, and I thought that maybe I should go looking for him, to get the matter between us over and done with.

  I tried the door. It was unlocked. I went in.

  There were three bedrooms. One for Jimmy and Lillian, one for a girl in her early teens, whose stuff was piled everywhere, and one for a college-aged boy, according to the clothes in the closet and the textbooks on a shelf. I looked inside the covers of a couple of the textbooks, and saw that they belonged to Fred Souza. I put the books back, and looked around. There was a UMass Boston pennant on the wall. I went through the house, opening closets, looking for Jimmy’s shotgun. I didn’t find it.

  I went outside again, and back to the shed. Inside it was some fishing gear, including a couple of boat rods and reels. There were some boxes and chests, and there were the lawn and garden tools that people put in sheds. No shotgun.

  But I hadn’t really expected to find one. There were a lot of hunters on Martha’s Vineyard, so there was always a market for a good shotgun. The gun would have been one of the first things Jimmy sold, on his way down. Nip money.

  I went back into the house, and found a desk where the bills and correspondence were kept. There, amid the clutter of other papers, were some of those forms that come attached to paychecks. Lillian Souza worked at a clothing store on Circuit Avenue. She didn’t make a lot of money there, but at least it was a job. I went out to the truck and drove to Oak Bluffs.

  Circuit Avenue is Oak Bluffs’ main drag, a busy oneway street with angle parking that keeps cars from moving very fast, since drivers have to be careful about people backing out into the driving lane. Most of the passenger ferries bringing day-trippers from the mainland come into Oak Bluffs, so the town is filled with souvenir shops and fast-food restaurants that cater to that clientele.

  Oak Bluffs also sports the Fireside Bar, where the working island young mix at night with the college kids who come down to the island to combine work and play. Hightech fake ID’s are the order of the day, as is the Mary joke: How do we know that Jesus’ mother never drank at the Fireside? Because there are no v
irgins there. Bonzo, my gentle, childish friend, swabbed the floor and cleaned tables at the Fireside.

  Oak Bluffs offers other entertainments as well: the Vineyard Connection, where you can dance between drinks; a couple of good restaurants, and a couple of very expensive ones; and various businesses and stores. One of the latter was where Lillian Souza worked. I found a parking place and went in.

  I recognized her immediately. She looked like her sister, but more tired. She was folding clothing and placing it on a shelf. I went to her.

  “Mrs. Souza?”

  She put a saleswoman’s smile on her face. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for your son. Can you tell me where I can find him?”

  The smile faded. “He’s not on the island. He went up to Boston a week and a half ago. He got a job there, making more money than he can down here. He says he may come down here some weekends. Are you a friend of his?”

  “Not really. I heard that his dad was selling a shotgun, but I can’t get a hold of Jimmy, so I thought Fred might know something about it.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I’m afraid you’re too late to buy Jimmy’s shotgun. He sold it last winter. He decided he didn’t want to hunt anymore, so he sold his guns.” It was such a practiced lie that I imagined that she’d almost come to believe it herself.

  I noticed a woman across the room looking at us. She had that slight frown that some employers wear when they think their help isn’t moving fast enough, so I picked up a shirt and pretended to examine it.

  “I haven’t seen Fred’s little sister in quite a while,” I said in my friendliest voice. “She must be all grown up by now.”

  Lillian Souza brightened. “Well, I wouldn’t call Allison all grown up yet, but she’s very mature for her age. She’s working down at the ice cream shop on the docks, you know. She’s the youngest one there, but her boss says she’s the best of the bunch!”

  “You must be proud of her,” I said. I looked at the shirt one last time, and put it down. Not my style.

  I smiled at Mrs. Souza. “Thanks for your time,” I said, and walked away. I shifted course so I would pass the frowning woman. I smiled my smile at her, too, and gestured back at Lillian. “Nice lady,” I said, going by.

  I walked down Circuit Avenue, figuratively shaking my head. Good grief. Just about the time I’d started hearing Freddy’s footsteps in the dark, Fred had actually left the island. Imagination is wonderful but not always dependable.

  Down at the docks, I found the ice cream store and Allison Souza, an efficient girl just in her teens who was dressed in a white uniform and a little white cap that made her look rather like a nurse.

  “Allison,” I said, “I’ve lost Fred’s Boston address. Can you remember what it is?”

  “No,” she said. “But I know his telephone number.” She gave it to me.

  I thanked her, and while I was there, I got a double scoop black raspberry cone. Lunch. Delish.

  When the ice cream was gone, I drove home and called Aristotle Socarides again. Elusive Aristotle was still not answering his phone. I called the Edgartown police station and asked for the chief. He was out. Downtown. I had apparently used up all my telephone luck with the call to Maggie Vanderbeck.

  I drove downtown and spotted the chief in front of the county courthouse.

  One of the curiosities of Martha’s Vineyard is that Dukes County, of which the Vineyard is the greater part, is not really Dukes County at all, but is officially the County of Dukes County. That is to say, it is Dukes County County, a county whose name is Dukes County. Thus, the courthouse is the County of Dukes County Courthouse, just as the main island airport is the County of Dukes County Airport. This odd nomenclature is due, I’m told, to an ancient error in official writing that, for reasons unknown to me, became the official form. So things go, sometimes.

  Naturally, I couldn’t find a parking place anywhere near the courthouse, but the chief was still there when I got back, talking with Dom Agganis, the state cop.

  “What do you want?” asked the chief.

  I handed him Fred Souza’s telephone number. “I want the address that goes with that.”

  He looked at the paper. “What is this?”

  “It’s Fred Souza’s telephone number.”

  “Jimmy’s boy? Why don’t you just call him and ask him yourself? Why don’t you just ask his folks, for that matter?”

  “I don’t want to worry his folks, and I don’t want to scare Freddy away. I want to talk to him before he can run.”

  Dom Agganis tilted his head, listening. The chief looked at the paper again. “Why should Fred run away?”

  “Because it’s possible that he stole John Dings’s shotgun. I can’t prove it, but I think it’s possible.”

  “Is that a fact?” said Agganis. “What makes you think so?”

  I told them what people had told me, and what I’d seen when I’d walked around the outside of Jimmy Souza’s house. I didn’t tell them about my explorations inside the house, since it’s not a good policy to confess crimes to policemen standing in front of a courthouse.

  When I was done, Agganis said: “And that’s why you think Freddy Souza stole his uncle’s shotgun?” He allowed his lip to curl slightly.

  “I didn’t say he did it,” I said, irked by the curl, as Dom no doubt knew I’d be. “I only said it’s possible that he did it, and I want to talk to him before he has a chance to run away.”

  Agganis snorted. “I think the only running Fred has to do is to a lawyer, who’ll probably sue your socks off for harassment, if you lay this trip on his client.”

  It annoys me when I let somebody annoy me, so I willed my anger away to some far corner of my psyche. I said: “Even you should be able to figure this, Corporal.” I ticked off the points of the argument on my fingers, as though to make sure he would get them. “Jimmy Souza is going down the tubes, and taking his family with him. He’s lost his boat, his house is for sale, he’s had to sell his shotguns and probably other stuff, and he’s nipping vodka all day long. He blames the trawlers for all his troubles. He says the trawlers wrecked his pots and other gear, and did him in. They’re the bad guys. And guess who owns the trawlers? Luciano Marcus. They’re his latest toy. He’s got them coming out of New Bedford, Provincetown, and maybe Gloucester, for all I know.

  “Now, while Jimmy goes from bad to worse, and his wife has to take a job selling shirts, their boy Freddy is up at UMass Boston, running out of money for school, along with everything else that’s gone bad after Jimmy lost his boat. Maggie Vanderbeck says Freddy’s gotten moody, not like he used to be, and even in the old days Freddy had a bit of a short fuse. Anyway, one night last April, he and some friends come down from school and have a party. That same night, his uncle John Dings and his aunt Sandy came over to his folks’ place for the evening to play cards. His folks probably told him that, but even if they didn’t, he knew it, because the Dingses had offered their place for the party, if the kids wanted to have it there.

  “He gets to the party down in Katama and overhears Vinnie Cecilio tell Jean Dings about Luciano Marcus’s plan to go up to Boston to go to the opera. Like his daddy, Fred blames the trawlers for all the family’s problems, so he decides to do something about it. While he’s on his beer run, he goes to the Dings’s house—maybe by car, or maybe he parks his car at the end of his folks’ driveway, sneaks down and takes the dinghy across the pond, I don’t know which. He knows Uncle John has a shotgun because John and Jimmy Souza used to go hunting together. And he probably knows where the gun is kept, because he’s been in the Dings’s house lots of times, and, besides, it’s no secret where John Dings keeps the gun.

  “So he takes the gun, and gets the beer. With a fake ID, Dom, in case you didn’t guess that. He gets the beer and goes back to the party. Now he’s got a gun and he knows that Luciano Marcus will show up at a certain time and place. He takes the gun to Boston, finds a helper who’s got a hooded sweatshirt, and voilà! You follow all that, Dom?”<
br />
  “Why did he go to Boston, then have his helper wait all that time?” asked Agganis. “According to you, the kid’s mad and he’s got the gun, and Marcus is right here on the island. The killings that I know about, the bad guy, if he’s really worked up, doesn’t hang around four months to make his hit. He does it right now, with whatever weapon he’s got. A rock or a gun or whatever. None of this long-range planning, or rare poison found only up the Amazon, or any of that kind of crap.”

  “Maybe Freddy thought of doing that,” I said. “Maybe he went up there to Marcus’s place, even. But Marcus lives in a high-security house. He’s got guards, and dogs at night. Fred couldn’t get in there if he tried. Besides, maybe he has some Italian blood in his veins. Maybe revenge is a dish he prefers to eat cold.”

  Agganis nodded, suddenly agreeable. “I can understand that,” he said. “I got one grandmother was Italian. She was like that.” He turned to the chief. “Maybe we should look into this.”

  The chief gave me a sour look. “Maybe we should. I’ll call Sullivan, up in Boston, and drop this story in his ear. Maybe he can do something with it.” He held up the piece of paper I’d given him. “That being the case, you probably don’t need the address that goes with this, after all. We’ll let Sullivan take care of it.” He folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

  20

  Angela Marcus stood, hands on hips, and looked at her garden.

  “There’s no doubt about it,” she said. “Something is eating the leaves of the cucumbers and lettuce.” She looked at her cabbage. “Damage there, too. Maria! I wonder if I should finally give in and buy some chemical pest controls? I hate to do it, because I like to do things organically, if I can. What do you think?”

  “Something has to be done,” I said. “Personally, I’m not above using a few bug killers.”

  The garden was partially sunken into the side of the slope above and behind the house. There was a low stone wall around it, to cut the winds that blew so steadily across the Gay Head hills. Between the walls, tons of rich earth had been trucked in and spread in a thick layer to replace the original sandy, rocky soil that had been hauled away when the garden had been built. Now flowers grew beside the walls: bright wild flowers mixed with annuals and perennials. Inside the ring of flowers, Angela grew her herbs and vegetables.