I handed her the photo of the eagles. “I’m looking for these birds. I’m hoping that you’ve seen them or heard of them.”
She stared myopically at the photo, then held it up to the light. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I need my spectacles. Would you be kind enough to fetch them for me? I believe they’re over on that reading table.”
I pronounced my delight to be of service and went to the table. The glasses were lying on top of a piece of paper containing a list of liquor and food items. I fetched the spectacles for their owner with a smile.
She laughed. “Thank you, thank you. We women are so vain, we often won’t wear our glasses even if it means being half blind!”
“Not at all.”
“Well, now, let me see.” She peered at the photo, then shook her head. “Your photo is a bit fuzzy, Mr. Jackson. Just what am I looking at?”
I gave her the short version of the Zimbabwe Eagles tale, after which she shook her head again and handed the photo back. “A fascinating story, but I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’ve neither seen nor heard of these birds. Are you certain they’re here on the island?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Because if they were, I’m sure I would know. Not much happens in the local art scene without my being aware of it, and the dealers are all aware of my interest in fine things.”
“As I told you, Daniel Duarte’s firm handled their sale, and Matthew may have been the principal agent in the transaction. I know that you and Matthew have done business in the past, so I had hopes that he might have mentioned the sale to you.”
As I spoke, I heard the sound of a vehicle coming to a stop in front of the house.
Georgie Hall stared at me. “Who told you I did business with poor Matthew, bless his soul?”
“Apparently it’s common knowledge. After all, you’re a well-known collector and he was active in the sale of fine art, so a lot of people knew or at least thought they knew. I’m not exactly sure who told me first. Have I been misinformed?”
“No. No, you’ve not been misinformed. Ours is a gossipy little community, I’m afraid, Mr. Jackson. I do sometimes wish that people would mind their own business instead of mine, though.” She sighed.
“I take it that you’ve learned of Matthew Duarte’s death,” I said.
She brightened. “Yes! Shocking! I was stunned. Dear Matthew. We were all so fond of him! A terrible accident. Terrible, terrible.”
“I don’t believe it was an accident,” I said, watching her face carefully. “He was shot in the back of the head and the weapon wasn’t in the room.”
She leaned forward, wide-eyed. “How awful!” Then her brows came down. “Where did you hear that, Mr. Jackson?”
“I didn’t hear it from anyone. I found the body.”
“No!” She beamed at me. “Tell me everything!”
But before I could speak, there was a knock on the door.
“Damn!” she cried, glancing out the window. She climbed to her feet. “Stay right where you are, Mr. Jackson.”
She went to the desk and picked up the list I’d seen there and carried it to the door, which she opened.
On the porch stood a smiling Miguel Periera holding a cardboard box piled with goods. “Good morning, Mrs. Hall. I’ve brought your order and come for your new shopping list, if you have one.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you! You know where the kitchen is.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He disappeared down a hall then reappeared and accepted the new shopping list.
“Thank you, Miguel. You’re a treasure!”
“My pleasure, as always, Mrs. Hall.” He touched the bill of his cap and went away as Georgie Hall almost shut the door in his face and hurried back to me.
I looked out the window and saw Miguel’s refrigerated van turn in the yard and drive out of my view.
“Dear Miguel,” said my hostess, seating herself briskly and leaning toward me. “We’d all be in the poorhouse if it wasn’t for him. Now, tell me everything about finding poor Matthew’s body! How exciting! I mean, how awful!”
I gave her a stripped-down version of how I’d discovered the body.
“Dear me!” she said. “Who could have done such a thing! Poor Connie. I’ll have to give her a call.” She seemed to flutter without moving from her seat. “Do the police have any suspects?”
“I wouldn’t know. If they don’t find one soon, they’ll probably want to talk with his friends, so you shouldn’t be surprised to get a visit from them.”
“Me?” Her hand touched her throat. “Why, I certainly can’t help them.”
“You may know more than you think,” I said. “After all, you’re a very knowledgeable member of the artistic community here on the island. A woman of your standing cannot help but know a lot about a lot of people.”
“Well, yes. But I certainly don’t know any murderers!”
“Sometimes a seemingly innocent piece of information turns out to be a valuable clue to investigators. For instance, had you happened to have overheard some reference to the birds I’m looking for, you might not have attached any significance to the remark, but it would have been very important to me.”
“But I didn’t hear any such thing.”
“And that may be important in itself, since it suggests that the birds might not be on the island at all.” I stood and put out my hand. “Well, thank you very much for your time. I appreciate the help you’ve given me. I know I can rely on your discretion to keep our conversation confidential. The fewer people who know about my inquiries, the better, as I’m sure you understand.”
This last was quite the opposite of true, but I thought it would spur Georgie Hall to spread the word even faster than she might otherwise have done. The more people who knew about my search, the more likely I was to find the birds or even find a killer.
I glanced back as I went out the door. Georgie Hall was already looking at the phone.
13
Would Connie Duarte be staying in the house where her husband was murdered? I doubted it. Later, maybe, she could live there again, but not right now; not yet.
Which meant she was somewhere else.
In West Tisbury I stopped at the police station, beside the millpond. There were two swans and some ducks on the pond, and the scene looked charming and pastoral, as usual. Death has little negative effect on the beauty of nature. Given time, as the poet noted, the green grass does its work and covers even the ruins of war. Today, the ruins of Matthew Duarte were not visible.
Inside, I found the young police officer who had guarded the door of Duarte’s house, and asked him if Connie Duarte was back on the island and, if so, where she was staying. She was back, but he didn’t know where she was.
Any leads on the case?
I’d have to ask the chief.
Where was the chief?
Out.
A laconic cop. Or maybe, like some other cops, he just didn’t like talking to me.
I drove back the way I’d come to the general store, where I used the public phone. Al Butters answered and, reluctantly, I thought, told me that Connie Duarte was staying with West Tisbury friends, Millie and Sam Hopewell. Long ago, when Al was young, Joseph McCarthy must have had quite an impact on his psyche.
The Hopewells, according to Al, lived not far from the cemetery where fans of Nancy Luce keep her grave decorated with plastic chickens. Nancy, idiosyncratic mid-nineteenth-century Vineyard citizen and author of “Poor Little Hearts,” a poem mourning the death of her hens, Ada Queenie and Beauty Linna, was a better poet than many, and deserves the attention she still gets. No one, I’m sure, will leave plastic chickens on my grave.
The Hopewell house was one of those ancient farmhouses hooked to its barn by connecting sheds, such as you can still find throughout New England. I drove into the yard and stepped out to the smell of horses coming from the barn and the sound of a small dog yapping at me from a window of the house.
When I’m king of the worl
d, I’m banning small dogs, yapping and otherwise, left turns, pay toilets, and high heels. I’m keeping fire, pestilence, war, poverty, and misery because, although they’re bad, they’re not as bad as the four things I’m banning.
The woman who opened the door was about my age, and was wearing loose slacks and an untucked, loose shirt, such as many broadening women wear. She had a nice round face and a pair of rimless glasses balanced on her nose. Her hair was short and tidy, with little streaks of gray mixed with the brown. The wretched little dog in her arms looked at me with angry, Napoleonic eyes.
“My name is Jackson,” I said. “I’m looking for Connie Duarte.”
She gave me a wary look. “Are you a friend of hers?”
“We’ve never met. I’m hoping she can give me some information.”
“Are you a police officer?”
I considered suggesting that I was, but was sure that ploy would come back to haunt me. “I used to be.”
She frowned. “You’re sure you’re not the police? Are you the press? Connie really isn’t up to giving any interviews. She’s exhausted.”
“I’m sure she is,” I said. “Sorrow saps our strength. I’m not with the police or the press or an insurance company. I’m one of the people who found her husband’s body.”
“Oh.” She put a hand to her mouth. The little dog growled.
“I just need a few minutes of her time,” I said. “I’m hoping she can answer the questions I was planning to ask her husband when we went to his house. I’m interested in some works of art that he may have handled.”
She stroked the dog. He continued to glare at me. “Well, as far as I know, Connie didn’t have much to do with Matthew’s business, but wait here and I’ll ask her if she’s up to seeing you. You’re sure you only need a few minutes?”
“Yes.”
She frowned and went away, then came back.
“This way, please.”
I followed her down a hall and into a sitting room, where a younger woman rose from a chair. The woman had that look of fatigue that you often see on the faces of survivors.
“Connie, this is Mr. Jackson. I’ll leave you two alone.” She gave me a mother-hen look. “Now, don’t be too long, Mr. Jackson.”
“I’ll be all right, Millie,” said the woman. She gave me her hand as Millie Hopewell and her teeny dog left the room. “I’m Connie Duarte. Millie says you want to talk with me about some work of art my husband may have handled. I’m afraid I really don’t know much about the details of his business.”
I showed her the photo of the eagles, and explained what they were. “I know that Daniel Duarte’s firm sold these birds, and it’s possible that your husband may have been the sales agent. I’m trying to find out who bought them. Have you ever seen them or heard of them?”
She studied the photo then shook her head and handed it back to me. “I’ve never seen these pieces, and I don’t remember any talk of them. But then, my husband never discussed much of his work with me. He said it was too boring to be the subject of conversation. I’m sorry.”
“Your husband never talked about the art he bought and sold?”
“I wouldn’t say never. He showed me certain pieces he was proud to handle, and spoke of others that pleased him. But he didn’t speak about a lot of his work.” She hesitated, then added, “Lately he was away from the house a good deal. Seeing clients, he said.”
“Do you know any of their names? One of them might have purchased the eagles.”
Her face was weary. “Well, I know some of the local people. I know he sold to Georgie Hall and Gerald Jenkins. And I think Charlie Mauch bought from him. I’m sure there are records of all his clients. Sam knows more about it than I do.”
“Sam?”
She looked at me with tired eyes. “Why, yes. Sam Hopewell. Millie’s Sam. Sam goes in…went in, I suppose I should say, once a week to do Matt’s books. Matt wasn’t much of an accountant. Haven’t you talked with Sam?”
“No, but I’d like to. Is he here?”
She shook her head. “Actually, I think he’s at the office. Matt’s death has left the business in limbo, just like it’s left me.” She touched her brow with her hand. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help you.”
“I thank you for your time,” I said. “Get some rest.”
I left the room and found Millie Hopewell in the kitchen. The dog was somewhere out of sight. “I need to talk with your husband,” I said. “Is he at Duarte’s office?”
“You seem to need to talk with a lot of people, Mr. Jackson. Sam is helping the police. Can’t your questions wait?”
“A protective wife is a blessing,” I said. “I won’t take up much of his time. I’m looking for something Matthew Duarte may have sold. Your husband may know about it.”
Her eyes drifted toward the sitting room, then came back. She picked up a dish towel and began to polish an already clean glass. “The office is in the barn behind Matthew and Connie’s house. The police have asked Sam to go over Matthew’s papers to see if any of his business dealings might be related to his death. An angry client, or something like that. I’m not sure he has time to see you right now.”
“I’ll ask him.”
I drove to Matthew Duarte’s house, which was still closed by yellow tape, parked, and went to the front door of the office in the barn. Today the door was unlocked and I went inside. I was in a hallway adorned with paintings. At the far end was another door. Yet another door opened from the side of the hall. I went to the closer, side door first and knocked. Nothing. I tried the knob. Locked. I went to the end of the hall and knocked on that door. A voice told me to come in.
The room was a large office decorated with small, primitive wall hangings and pieces of sculpture, and fitted with antique furniture, including two desks, each with its own computer, of course. A man was sitting behind the smaller desk. The other I took to have been Matthew Duarte’s domain. There were carved oak file cases all along one wall and shelves filled with books along another. A window looked out over a green field where horses grazed. The room exuded an aura of unostentatious wealth, knowledge, and taste.
The man who stood as I came in was middle-aged, slightly bald, and dressed in old, casual clothing. He had keen eyes behind old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses.
“You must be Mr. Jackson.” He put out a strong hand and shook mine.
“Your wife called you.”
“Yes. She thought I’d prefer to know who was visiting. I hope this won’t take too long. The police have asked me to go over our books in hopes of finding something that might be related to Matthew’s death.”
“Any luck?”
He smiled slightly. “That’s for the police to know, Mr. Jackson, but I don’t mind telling you that so far I’ve found absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I really don’t know. Some unusual transaction, perhaps, or an unhappy letter indicating an angry client. The appearance or disappearance of some significant amount of money. That sort of thing, I suppose. I’m an accountant, not a policeman. I might not recognize a clue if I saw one.”
“But you would recognize any unusual business record precisely because you are an accountant and not a cop.”
He nodded. “Perhaps. In any case, I can give you a few minutes. What can I do for you?”
“I have two questions. The first has to do with these stone eagles.” I gave him the photo and told him what I’d learned about the birds.
He held the photo up to the light from the window and nodded. “Fascinating. But if Matt had handled the sale, I’d have known about it, and the record would be in our ledgers.”
He handed the photo to me. “In this business we have certain clients who don’t want other people to know what they own, but in this case client confidentiality be damned. The police want to know anything that might help them.”
“Most of the time, client confidentiality must make it easier to buy and
sell illegal goods.”
His brows came down. “I hope you’re not suggesting that Matt engaged in unlawful practices.”
“I’m only pointing out the obvious: that secrecy is the home of crime. Thieves hate bright lights.”
“Great nations and small businesses have their secrets, too, Mr. Jackson, and they value them highly.”
“I’ve been convinced for some time that most classified information serves to protect the asses of the people making the decisions rather than the nations or stockholders involved.”
His smile came back. “You may be right, but in this case client confidentiality isn’t going to protect anyone who might have wanted Matt dead. I liked Matt, and besides, I have my own reputation to protect.”
“There may not be a record of the sale of the eagles, but you were close to Matthew Duarte. Have you heard any talk of them?”
He shook his head. “None. I think I would have remembered if I had.”
“I seem to be at a dead end. I do have another question, though. Perhaps you can answer it: When I asked to speak to Connie Duarte, your wife asked me if I was a policeman. Why?”
He studied me, then shrugged. “It will come out eventually, I suppose. My wife considers herself to be Connie’s best friend, and she wants to protect her.”
“From the police? Why?”
“Because Millie thinks that Connie will be a suspect in Matthew’s killing. Connie had nothing to do with it, of course. She was on Nantucket when it happened.”
“Why would Connie be a suspect?” I asked, looking for confirmation of what I’d already heard.
Hopewell gave it. “Because Matthew was about to divorce her. Oh, it hadn’t gotten to the lawyer stage yet, but he’d spoken of it to me, and he planned to leave her as little as he could. Matthew Duarte could be charming but you wouldn’t call him a moralist.”
14
Sam Hopewell glanced at his cluttered desk. It was a polite hint that I had interrupted him long enough, but I stayed and pushed him a bit.
“Are you saying that your wife thinks Connie Duarte is capable of murder?”
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