It was Angela’s garden, and, she had explained to me in the half-hour I’d been there with her, she grew what she wanted to grow in the way she wanted to grow it. None of the men or women who worked on the estate were allowed to say anything about how things were done there, or to offer a single word of advice unless asked to do so, even though Angela knew very well that several of the grounds-keepers were far more knowledgeable about plants than she was. Although she was glad to share its bounty with Jonas, the cook, Angela was mistress of the garden just as she was mistress of the house itself.
Now, as the wind tugged gently at the old straw hat she wore, and the summer sun shown bright in the arching blue sky above us, she sighed. “Insect problems.” She got down on her knees and peeked under a holey cabbage leaf to see if she could spot the enemy who was eating it. No such luck. She sat back on her heels.
I had come to talk with her about her perceptions of her husband’s possible enemies, but had rapidly learned that he had been right about her: She knew nothing that could help, because she could not conceive of anyone wanting to harm Luciano, even though someone clearly had tried to kill him. The only explanation she could think of was, “It was some kind of a mistake. They thought he was somebody else.”
Now, sitting on her heels, she was speaking of things she knew something about. “Sometimes an insect likes one kind of plant, but doesn’t like another,” she was saying. “Maybe I can take advantage of that.”
“That’s right,” said a voice. “Maybe next year you should plant things in alternating rows to discourage some kinds of bugs. They call it companion planting. There are other options you might try, too, before you start using chemicals.”
I was startled, because I’d thought we were alone. Angela and I turned our heads and looked toward the voice. The shaman stood there, looking so comfortable that it was almost as if he belonged there, as if he were a member of the staff or one of Luciano’s guests.
Angela, too, seemed to think he belonged. “I know there are things I can probably do, but I just don’t know what they are,” she said, turning back to the cabbage plant and peering through its leaves. “I have enough books, goodness knows. I guess I’ll just have to read them more carefully.”
“Reading is always good,” agreed the shaman. “And if you were to ask me, I’d also say that chemicals aren’t always bad. On the other hand, why use them if you don’t have to?”
Angela nodded. “My thoughts exactly.” She smiled at him and stood up. Together, they looked around the garden.
“Very nice,” said the shaman. He nodded to me. “How are you, J. W.?”
“Fine,” I said.
Angela was looking around. “Insect problems, for sure. But the garden doesn’t look too bad.”
“Almost everything you need is already growing here,” said the shaman. “Rosemary, sage, geraniums, garlic…”
“Luciano and I use a lot of garlic,” said Angela. “I think mine is better than anything we can buy in the local stores. And fresh herbs just make all the difference in the world. Jonas—he’s the cook. Have you met him? No? Well, Jonas has free rein to take whatever he wants out of here. He’s the only one beside me who can do that. He gets a lot of use from it, and Luciano and I eat well, I can tell you. What do you mean, I have almost everything I need?”
“I have my own garden,” said the shaman. “There’s nothing better than eating fresh vegetables you’ve grown with your own hands.”
“Oh, I agree.”
“Let me show you what I mean,” he said, and together they moved slowly about the garden, looking first at this, then at that. I followed, wide-eared. “For example,” he said, “here’s your garlic. Aphids hate garlic…”
“Like vampires?” She laughed, and he joined her.
“Just like Vlad Dracul himself,” he agreed. “So if you plant your garlic next to, say, your lettuce, the aphids will stay away. And if you plant your tomatoes next to your asparagus, the asparagus beetles will stay away.”
“What about my cabbages?”
“Here’s your rosemary and there’s your sage and there’s your thyme. Cabbage butterflies don’t like those herbs, so if you plant them near your cabbage, the butterflies go off and eat somebody else’s cabbage.”
“Now that you say that, I seem to remember reading it somewhere.”
“I’m sure you did. I know I didn’t discover it single-handed.”
She seemed to reach back into her mind. “And there are flowers, too, aren’t there? You mentioned geraniums, and I seem to remember reading about nasturtiums, too, and marigolds.” She apparently remembered, and spontaneously grasped his wrist. “Japanese beetles! That was it! Japanese beetles don’t like marigolds or geraniums! Now, what was it about nasturtiums …?”
“You’re absolutely right about the marigolds and geraniums.” He gestured with his free hand. “And nasturtiums are good for keeping off bean beetles. You have everything you need right here: your flowers, your herbs. All you have to do next year is rearrange them.” He looked down at her, and a small smile flickered across his face. “Of course, in the meantime you might want to pop down to your local greenhouse and get some stuff that will do in this year’s bugs. We live in an imperfect world, and sometimes we need help we wish we didn’t need. When my organic plants don’t work out, I’m not above taking advantage of modern science.”
She seemed to become conscious of her grip on his wrist and withdrew her hand. He seemed not to have noticed. She looked happy and comfortable in his presence.
“My goodness,” she said. “I’m afraid I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Angela Marcus.”
“I’m Bill Vanderbeck.”
She took off a glove and put out her hand. He shook it with his larger, browner one.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” she said. “Are you working here?”
“No, I’m not. I came by to talk to your husband, and I saw you here in your lovely garden, and I’m afraid I got sidetracked.”
“Ah. You know Luciano, then?”
“No, we’ve never met. It’s a business matter.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Jackson here wants to see him, too. Mr. Jackson, why don’t you take Mr. Vanderbeck down to Luciano’s office. And afterward, perhaps you’ll have time to join us for a drink on the veranda.”
“I would enjoy that, but it may not be possible,” said Vanderbeck. “Thank you for showing me your wonderful garden.”
“You must certainly come back soon and visit it again.”
“It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Marcus.”
“Call me Angela. I have the feeling that we’re to become friends.” She again extended her hand, and again he shook it.
“If you’re Angela, then I’m Bill.”
“Bill.”
“Just plain Bill, like in the old radio show.”
She laughed. “I used to listen to that program when I was a child. I haven’t thought of it in years!”
I led him into the house and down the hallway that led to Luciano’s office. We paused outside the closed door. “This is Luciano’s realm,” I said, and knocked. A voice said to come in, and we did.
Luciano was seated at his desk. Vanderbeck followed me into the room and the door shut behind him.
Luciano’s eyes widened, then narrowed. His face paled. He touched a button on his desk, then dropped his hand from sight and appeared to open a silent desk drawer. I wondered how long it had been since he had fired a gun, and if he had imagined that he would ever have to fire one again, particularly in this innermost of sanctums, deep inside his own house. I imagined that it had been Thomas Decker who had insisted that his boss should have a weapon of last resort, and that Luciano had given in, and now he was glad he had.
He looked right through me, staring at Vanderbeck.
“Who are you?”
“Bill Vanderbeck.”
“Vanderbeck! How did you get here?”
“I met your wife. She asked J. W. here to br
ing me down.”
“That’s right,” I said, wondering if there really was a pistol pointing at Vanderbeck, or maybe at me. “Angela asked me to bring him down. She said that maybe we could stay for a drink afterward.”
“A drink? You know my wife, then.” Marcus’s narrow eyes were fixed on Vanderbeck.
“Yes,” said Vanderbeck. “We’ve been in her garden.”
“Are you some gardener she met? No, you’re one of those damned Wampanoag Vanderbecks! How did you get up here? You should have been stopped!”
I wondered what Luciano was seeing as he stared at Vanderbeck. Did he see the man I saw? A medium-sized man of indefinite age, dressed in casual summer clothing—jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, boat shoes, a baseball cap with a Colorado Rockies logo. A face that was so ordinary it was hard to describe, brown skin, dark hair. Deep eyes that seemed to be amused, or maybe not amused, but having some kind of odd, not unpleasant expression in them. Or did he see a devil in poor disguise?
Vanderbeck’s eyes were roaming the room, no doubt noting what I had noted on earlier visits: the well-hidden TV camera high on the wall, the button on Luciano’s desk, and the door to the right, behind which, perhaps, Thomas Decker and some others might even now be looking at the TV screen that showed them the inside of the office, so that they’d know what was going on in there before they came in.
Luciano glared at me. “Do you know this man?”
“We met earlier this week.”
“Did you bring him up here in your car? Did you?” His eyes were hot.
I shook my head. “No. I met him in your wife’s garden.”
“What do you want?” asked Luciano, watching Vanderbeck casually select a chair with its back to the right-hand door, and sit down, putting his hands on the arms of the chair. I had the distinct impression that Vanderbeck had chosen that chair deliberately, so as to make himself more vulnerable to whoever might soon be coming through the door. It was as though Vanderbeck knew Luciano was frightened and wanted to show that he had no need to be.
“I want to talk to you about the cranberry bog and the bit of land just this side of it,” said Vanderbeck, as the door behind him swung silently open and Thomas Decker and Vinnie came in, Decker’s right hand behind his back. Decker and Vinnie stepped quietly to either side of the chair where Vanderbeck sat. He glanced at them and nodded, then looked back at Luciano.
“Cranberry bog?” asked Luciano in momentary confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Your cranberry bog,” said Vanderbeck. “The one down at the bottom of the hill in front of your house. And about a half acre of land just this side of it.”
“What about it?”
“There are some Wampanoags here in town who think that cranberry bog and that half acre of land actually belong to the tribe. They believe that you probably bought it in good faith, but that since it never really belonged to any of the people who probably thought they owned it before you got it, it’s not really yours at all, but belongs to the tribe. I came up here to talk to you about that and see if something can be worked out, so nobody has to go to court. I have a trade in mind.”
“A trade? Go to court?”
“Well, there are a couple of Wampanoag lawyers now, here in Gay Head, and you know how lawyers are. They make their living by going to court or threatening to. And there are some people in the tribe who are pretty hot about that bog. They say it always belonged to the tribe, and that they want it back right now, and they’re ready to hire the lawyers if they have to. On the other hand, some other people want to avoid the whole court business. They asked me to drop by and talk with you personally, about maybe you trading the bog for a piece of Wampanoag land that breaks up your north property line, before we start dragging the lawyers into the situation.”
Marcus stared. “Why did they send you? You some sort of chief or something? A damned lawyer yourself, probably.”
Vanderbeck shook his head. “No, I’m nobody official, nor any lawyer, either. Just a neighbor of yours come by to see if we can work this thing out together.”
Luciano glared. “You even a Wampanoag?”
“So some people say.”
Luciano, feeling more comfortable now that Decker and Vinnie were there, brought his hand out from behind the desk and leaned back. “I can’t figure out why they sent you. Why you?”
Vanderbeck smiled. “Probably because they thought I could get in here. It isn’t always easy to meet with an important man with a lot of business interests. Usually you have to meet a secretary first and explain what you want, then the secretary has to talk with the boss, and the boss may decide not to see you at all. They figured I could probably get to see you.”
Luciano’s earlier fear seemed to be replaced by confidence and some irritation.
“Look,” he said. “As far as my land is concerned, I bought it fair and square. I want to be a good neighbor to everybody in town, Indians and all, but that cranberry bog is mine and I plan to keep it. And if we have to go to court, well, I have a couple of lawyers of my own that I’ll stack up against your Wampanoag lawyers any day.”
Vanderbeck nodded pleasantly. “You talk with your lawyers, and have them check the records for that bog and the bit of land I mentioned. You look at a map of your place, you’ll see what piece of land I mean. Afterward, you may change your mind about that bog.” He flowed to his feet. “No need to try to resolve things right now. I’ll be back one of these days, and we can talk some more. Maybe we can work something out.”
“I don’t expect to change my mind,” said Marcus, standing up.
“Neither do those Wampanoags who are calling that bog sacred Indian Land,” said Vanderbeck. “Personally, I can’t imagine calling a cranberry bog sacred land, but people think about things in different ways. Well, see you later.” He turned to Thomas Decker and pointed to the right-hand door. “That leads outside, I reckon. Maybe your friend there will walk out with me. I think your boss and you will probably want to have a talk. So long, J. W.”
He gave Vinnie a long look, then moved past Decker, opened the door, and walked out. Vinnie, frowning, followed him.
“Take him as far as the main gate, Vinnie,” said Decker. When the door closed, he and Luciano looked at each other.
“That man walked right in here,” said Luciano. “You find out how that happened and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Decker nodded, his hard face even harder-looking than usual. “I’ll take care of it.”
When Decker was gone, Luciano sat and thought. It was as though he had forgotten I was there. The fear he’d experienced when Vanderbeck had first appeared flickered back across his face. I could imagine what was going through his mind: What if Decker couldn’t stop Vanderbeck from coming to the house? That was a scary thought. He’d built this fine house and surrounded it with trusted people so he’d never be confronted by anyone he didn’t want to see. And now this Vanderbeck had just walked in. He must suddenly have felt vulnerable and a little older than an hour before.
He reached into his shirt pocket and got out another one of those pills. He put it into his mouth. After a bit, his breathing was better, and he suddenly seemed to remember me.
“You have something to tell me?”
“Yes.”
He held up his hand. “First tell me how you met Vanderbeck earlier this week. Then tell me how you met him up in the garden just now. How did he get there without anyone seeing him?”
So I told him about my talks with Linda Vanderbeck and the various members of her family, including Bill Vanderbeck. Then I told him my theory about Fred Souza, and about meeting the shaman in the garden, and that I hadn’t the slightest idea how he’d gotten there.
He listened, frowning at times. I had the impression that Vanderbeck worried him more than Fred Souza did. He could understand someone like Fred. But the shaman was a mystery beyond his ken, and he didn’t like that at all.
When I was done with my tale, he said, “So
you think this boy Souza is the one?”
“He had motive and opportunity, and that makes him a candidate at least.”
“And now the police are investigating?”
“I think so. I also think I owe you some money. If Fred Souza is the guy who hired the shooter, the job didn’t take as long as I thought it would.”
“I’ll tell Thornberry Security about this Souza kid,” he said. “As for the money, you keep it. Besides, we can’t be sure yet that the Souza boy did it.”
True enough. I stood up. “Since I keep the money, I’ll stay on the job a little longer, just in case there are some loose ends, or if Freddy didn’t do it. If he didn’t, somebody else did.” He nodded, then frowned. “Yeah. Do that. There is one thing you can do for me. You can keep that damned Indian off my land!”
Fat chance of that, I thought. But I didn’t say it.
21
“So that’s why you think Fred Souza might be the one,” said Zee, looking out over Sengekontacket, and nibbling on a cracker stacked with bluefish pâté.
Out on the horizon I could see the Shenandoah, the wind a bit aft of her beam, working her way back to Vineyard Haven, her home port. She seemed like something from another age. “That’s why,” I said. “I might have figured it out a little faster, if I’d been paying attention. I knew that Jimmy Souza’s son was named Fred, and I knew that the boat Jimmy owned before he went belly-up was named the Lucky Lil, and I knew that Jimmy blamed the trawlers for his problems. And then Sandy Dings told me that her sister’s name was Lillian, and Jean Dings told me her cousin’s name was Freddy. But somehow I never put that all together until yesterday. Dumbness.”
“Probably you were so bedazzled by being married that you couldn’t really think clearly. I imagine that’s it, and I think it’s sweet.” She smiled her shimmering smile.
Death on a Vineyard Beach Page 17