Death on a Vineyard Beach

by Philip R. Craig

He smiled at me. “Hello, J. W.”

  How had he gotten there? As usual, I’d heard and seen nothing of his coming. I shook his hand, and stepped back. He knelt beside Angela, and together they worked their way down the row of basil plants, pulling the occasional weeds that had emerged since Angela had last worked along this row, and discussing Angela’s herbs and vegetables. When they were done with the basil, they started on the beans.

  “Wonderful beans,” said Bill. “You could live on pesto, I could live on fresh-picked green beans.”

  “Me, too,” agreed Angela. She paused and sat back on her heels and looked around. “In fact, there’s nothing here that I wouldn’t be able to live on.” She smiled at him, and her teeth flashed in the summer sun.

  “You take care of your garden, and your garden will take care of you.”

  She pushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “I imagine you’ve come to talk with Luciano again about the cranberry bog.”

  “So he told you about the bog, eh? That’s good. Some men never tell their wives much.”

  “Well, I’m not saying he tells me everything, but I do know about your people wanting the cranberry bog.”

  “They’re not necessarily my people,” said the shaman, plucking a single stem of grass from beside a hearty bean plant. “To tell you the truth, I’m not very happy about people identifying themselves as members of groups. If they have to belong to some group or other, I think they’d be better off if they just thought of themselves as members of the human being group. But you’re right about some of the local Wampanoags wanting that bog. And the thing is, I believe they’ve got a case. I’ve seen the old maps and papers they talk about, and even though I’m not a lawyer—”

  “That reminds me,” she interrupted. “I meant to ask you before. What do you do for a living?” She laughed. “I know now that you’re not a lawyer, but what are you?”

  “I’m retired.”

  “What did you retire from?” she asked, her hands busy amid the beans.

  He worked steadily beside her. “I guess you might say that I never really had a regular job, a steady job, like being a doctor, or digging ditches, or driving a truck. I’ve done a lot of things during my life.”

  “One of them must have been gardening.”

  “That, too. Gardening’s been one of the jobs I’ve gone back to many times.”

  “I should warn you that Luciano seems very firm about keeping the cranberry bog.”

  “I’m sure he is, but I still hope to get him to change his mind. There’s a piece of land that the Wampanoags are willing to exchange for the bog and the half acre that goes with it. It sticks down inside the northern boundary of your property and it’s actually bigger than the bog land, so you’d be getting more land for less and straightening out your northern boundary line at the same time, if your husband could see fit to make the trade. It would be a good deal for everybody.”

  She climbed to her feet. “I suppose I’d better let the two of you get at your negotiations, then. I tell you, Bill, it would please me if you and Luciano could work this thing out. I don’t like to think about my neighbors being mad at us. I’d rather be friends. I should tell you, though, that Luciano is very unhappy about the way you come up here without any of his men seeing you. It’s very disturbing to him.”

  “I’ll try not to anger him.”

  She swept the garden with her eyes, seeing more work that needed doing. Then she looked at him. “I know you won’t,” she said.

  “Don’t bother showing me in,” he said. “I know the way.” He turned to me. “Maybe you’d like to come along, J. W. That way, Luciano won’t be all alone.”

  Angela nodded. “Yes, J. W., I think that’s a good idea.”

  When Luciano opened his office door in response to what I guessed he thought was Angela’s knock, he seemed stunned to find himself looking at Bill Vanderbeck.

  “How the hell did you get in here?”

  In answer to his question, Vanderbeck made a vague gesture that took in the house beyond the office door, the grounds outside the house, and the greater part of Gay Head. “I was helping your wife with her weeding,” he said.

  “Well, you can damn well stop seeing my wife in her garden! And you can get yourself out of here before I have you thrown out! And the next time you try to get in here, I’ll have you arrested!” He glared at me. “And what the hell are you doing here with this man?”

  “We met up in the garden again,” I said. “I was talking with your wife.”

  Vanderbeck floated across the room and took the same chair he had taken before. He pointed a bony forefinger at Luciano’s desk. “If you push that button there, you can have some men in here pretty quickly. I won’t be too long, in any case. I just came by to see if you’ve had a chance to talk with your lawyers about the Wampanoag claim to the cranberry bog.”

  Luciano stalked behind his desk and fell into his chair. “I’ve talked with them. They think they can beat you in court.”

  I was suddenly very conscious of Vanderbeck’s gentle yet piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to peer into Luciano’s psyche and to root out the truth that Luciano’s lawyers were, in fact, none too sure that they would prevail against a determined Wampanoag legal suit. Luciano, who normally was unreadable, save for his anger, seemed almost transparent.

  Vanderbeck produced a folded paper and laid it on Luciano’s desk. “You may not have seen this map. It shows the boundaries of your estate. You’ll notice a piece of land sort of sticking down into the northwest corner of your place. Some Wampanoags own that. They’re willing to trade that piece for the cranberry bog and that half acre that goes with it.”

  “The sacred Indian Land,” said Luciano, his lip curling. Still, he took the map and looked at it.

  “Show that to your lawyers and ask them what they think of a trade. That piece of land on the north has a title solid as a state biologist’s head. There’ll be no question in anybody’s mind about your owning it, if you decide to make the trade.”

  “I’m not interested in making any goddamned trade!”

  Vanderbeck got up. “You talk to your lawyers before you decide. I’ll see you again in a few days, and you can let me know what you think.”

  “You’re not by God, coming back! I don’t know how you got back in this time, but it won’t happen again!”

  Vanderbeck pointed at the desk. “It’s not necessary, but you’ll want somebody to escort me off your place. So just punch that button, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Luciano jabbed at the button, and soon Vinnie and two other men were in the room, staring at Vanderbeck, then looking nervously at their boss.

  “Hello, Vinnie,” said the shaman.

  Vinnie, who had no heart.

  “How the hell did this bozo get in here?” shouted Luciano, slamming his fist on the desk. “And where’s Thomas? He was supposed to make sure this guy never came back! Damn! Vinnie, you take this guy to the gate and make sure he never gets back in again!”

  “Yes, boss,” said Vinnie. He hesitated. “You want I should, ah, give him a lesson, like. You know, so he’ll know to stay away?”

  Vanderbeck gave Vinnie a smile, then smiled in turn at Luciano.

  “No!” said Luciano. “Just get the guy off my land and keep him off!”

  “We’ll get together later, Mr. Marcus,” said the shaman. “Come along, Vinnie.” He turned and led Vinnie and the other two men out of the room.

  Luciano put his hands on his desk and saw that they were trembling. He was pale. He looked at me. “The doctor tells me not to get too stressed out about things, to take it easy. Now this damned Indian, or whatever he is, is coming into my office whenever he damned pleases!” He took a pill from his pocket and put it under his tongue.

  I had a bad feeling. “Take it easy,” I said.

  But Luciano wasn’t listening. “And now he says he’s going to come again, and I know damned well he’ll do just that, in spite of Vinny and Thomas and all the rest
of them who are supposed to be guarding the place! He’s like a goddamned ghost or something!”

  Luciano sat and looked at his trembling hands, as if trying to will the chill of fear out of his soul. After a while, his hands stopped their shaking. He picked up the map and looked at it. Then he lifted a phone and glared at me. “I’m calling my lawyers! Goddamn that Vanderbeck!”

  It seemed a good time for me to leave. So I did.

  24

  Since I was already in Gay Head, I drove on up to the cliffs where, by a miracle, I found a parking place. Maybe Gay Head was beginning to think I was a native and had decided to treat me like a human being instead of just another money-producing tourist. I walked up to the lookout to see if I could spot Block Island, way out to the west. I have a theory that if conditions are just right, if it’s a perfectly clear, dry day, I should be able to see it, even though I never have. Today was no different. I could see Cuttyhunk, and the mainland of America beyond it, and the Texas Tower lighthouse out in the middle of the mouth of Buzzards Bay, and, way off there in the distance, what might be Point Judith, Rhode Island; but all I could see where Block Island should be was a little white cloud hanging over a thin haze on the horizon.

  On my right the bright clay cliffs fell down to the sea. Along the beach, far below, the water was colored by the hues of the clay, and the beach walkers were tiny ants. Fishing boats moved over the waters, and the wind was warm.

  I went down to the stores and bought myself a cola and a Wampanoag hamburger. When I was finished with them, I went into Toni Begay’s shop.

  “How’s married life?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Well, it’s not what I expected when I was a little girl.”

  “Little boys don’t even think about marriage,” I said. “I imagine it’s one of those gender things I hear about.”

  She idly arranged items on the shelves, moving here and there. “I had a talk with Joe,” she said.

  “Ah.”

  “He told me some more about what he does.”

  I said nothing.

  “He says he was sort of an aide-de-camp, a simplifier, an untangler. He says there are people like that in a lot of organizations. Their bosses trust them and when there’s some kind of a problem—in communications, for instance, or some sort of a mix-up in the organization—guys like Joe, who can speak for the boss, straighten out the problem. He says that nine times out of ten, it’s some personality thing. One manager doesn’t like another one, so he won’t cooperate with him. That sort of stuff. He says that his company and some other one might be trying to do a deal, and there are some little problems that have to be worked out. So he and the other company’s guy, who did the same work he did, work them out, and have a drink or two afterward, and maybe see each other a couple of times later. He says that’s some of what he used to do. Did you know there are people who do that sort of thing?”

  “I don’t know anything about business,” I said. “But it sounds logical. I know that every time something’s done, somebody does it. It doesn’t get done by itself.”

  “He put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me back so he could look down into my face, and he said he was out of that business, and that now he’s going to be a fisherman. He asked me to be patient with him a little longer.”

  I remembered the movement of his hand across his chest when Bill Vanderbeck had startled us. “You don’t need to tell me this,” I said.

  “You’re his friend. He said there’s a lot about me that he doesn’t know, but that he’ll tell me everything I want to know about him. He says we’re going to be married a long time, and the time will come that I’ll know so much about his boring life that I’ll be sorry I asked.”

  I thought back over my own life. It certainly didn’t seem to be worth much discussion. “Maybe he’s right,” I said.

  “No, he isn’t! I know he’s lived an exciting life.”

  “What is it that sailors say? That cruising consists of days of boredom interspersed with moments of stark terror? That’s probably a pretty good description of most men’s lives. Lots of dull stuff and a few high points.”

  “Anyway, he says he’ll tell me everything.”

  “Good.”

  “And that then I can judge for myself what kind of life he’s led.”

  “Probably he’s like me,” I said. “Probably he figures his past life was nothing compared to the one he’ll be living with his new wife.”

  She flashed me a smile. “You and Zee will have to come to our place for dinner.”

  “Fine. I’ll have Zee give you a call, so we can find a good time. Meanwhile, I’d like to talk to your husband. Do you know where I can find him?”

  He was down at the boat, in Menemsha. I drove there, parked in the lot by the beach, and walked along the dock until I saw Joe Begay and another man working together on the deck of a boat called Matilda.

  Menemsha is a genuine fishing village, but looks so perfect that you suspect it was designed by Walt Disney. Its post office is sufficiently quaint to have once been painted by Norman Rockwell as a Saturday Evening Post cover. There is a Coast Guard station there, a restaurant where the lobster is good, an antique shop, a boutique, a couple of fish markets, some snack shops, and not much else. Like the citizens of many of the island’s communities, Menemsha residents believe their spot is the island’s finest, and wouldn’t think of living anywhere else. They only wish that not so many people knew about it.

  Joe Begay and the other man were working on lines for conch pots. Coils of line lay in the cockpit of the boat under their feet, as they spliced.

  Joe Begay made introductions. “Buddy, this is J. W. Jackson. J. W., this is Buddy Malone.”

  I shook Buddy Malone’s hand. “You’re the guy who sold this boat to Joe.”

  “That’s right. Now he gets to try his hand at it. I’m going into another line of work.”

  “I do some scalloping down in Edgartown, but I’ve never done this sort of fishing.”

  “I been at it long enough. It’s like any other job. There’s good parts to it and there’s bad parts. If you like it, and if you work hard enough at it, and if you’re lucky, you can do all right.”

  Begay tugged at the bill of his cap and picked up a line. “Buddy’s showing me the ropes. He hasn’t painted any rosy pictures for me, either.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” said Buddy, taking up a line and working at a new splice. His scarred fingers were still nimble, and he was at least twice as fast as Begay, who worked slowly and methodically, making sure that his work was strong. In time, he would need to work faster, if he was to keep his gear in shape.

  “You have trouble with trawlers wrecking your gear?” I asked.

  Buddy snorted. “Does a bear shit in the woods? We lose gear all the time. If it isn’t the trawlers, it’s the storms. We can’t afford insurance, fuel costs more every day, the market is down, taxes are up. You name the problem, the fishermen have got it.”

  “He’s a terrific salesman,” said Begay, with a grin. “Makes me wish I’d gone into the business ten years ago.”

  “Buddy, did you ever hear of a guy named Luciano Marcus?”

  Buddy’s fingers flew. Then he shook his head. “Nope. Never heard the name.”

  “You guys have a fishermen’s association of some kind, don’t you? You never heard anybody talk about Luciano Marcus?”

  He thought some more, then shook his head again. “Nope. Who’s Luciano Marcus?”

  “He’s a guy who owns several of those trawlers that tear up your gear. Somebody took a shot at him the other day, and I was wondering if any of the pot fishermen on the island might have had something to do with it. Jimmy Souza says he lost his boat and has his house on the market, because the trawlers put him out of business. That might be motive enough for somebody to take a shot at somebody.”

  Buddy Malone’s hands moved to the next splice. “I know Jimmy. It wasn’t the trawlers that cost him his boat. It was the booze. The b
ooze is a problem for a lot of fishermen. It keeps them warm when they’re cold, it makes them happy when they’re sad, it lets them forget things they want to forget. It can get so the booze is the most important thing. You start off drinking so you can keep on fishing, and you end up fishing so you can keep on drinking. And then you get to be the next Jimmy Souza.” He looked up from his work. “That’s one reason I’m getting out of the game. I’m beginning to like the juice too much. But as for this Marcus guy, if somebody is mad enough to shoot him, I never heard about it.”

  I looked around the boat. It was about thirty feet long, with a forward steering station and a wide, open deck, where you could stack pots and other gear. It was beamy and had a fairly high bow, but had low freeboard amidships. There was a rig to haul pots, and a spare outboard motor mounted on the stern, in case the inboard ever failed. It was sturdy and without frills, a classic New England fishing boat, the kind you see going out for lobsters off Maine, or dropping fish traps off the southern coasts.

  The lines Joe Begay and Buddy Malone were working on would string pots together on the ocean floor. There would be a float at either end of the line, topped by a radar reflector, so the fisherman could find them even in fog or darkness. He’d start at one end of the line, and pull up the pots one by one. When a pot came up, he’d keep what catch he could sell, dump out the garbage, rebait the pot, and drop it overboard again. Then he’d go on to the next pot. It was not romantic work, but fishing and farming are only romantic pastimes to those who have never practiced them.

  Trawlers would cross his lines and wreck his pots, storms would set the floats ashore, lines would part, pots would break up, and his catch would not wait for fair weather to be gathered. The fisherman would be out there in all but the very worst weather, often in an old boat without insurance, harvesting the sea.

  And the fisherman himself was often his own worst enemy, overharvesting depleting stocks of game, taking no thought for the future other than tomorrow and the next boat payment. He fished out grounds, and bitterly complained when he could no longer bring back the catches he’d gotten in the old days. He sank boats to collect insurance money, if he was lucky enough to have insurance. He glutted the market when the fishing was good, and complained about the low prices he got.