Vineyard Enigma

by Philip R. Craig

  “No wonder business is good.”

  He nodded. “A lot of businesses are good when there’s a ton of money lying around just asking to be spent. We have piles of it on the island these days. What do you want to know in particular?”

  “Anything you can tell me about the characters in this little Vineyard drama.”

  “For instance?”

  “For instance, Daniel Duarte and Matthew Duarte. Daniel owned the company that sold the eagles and Matthew might have handled the deal. Charles Mauch. He’s a big wheel as well as a collector and he has his share of that money you were just talking about. Gerald Jenkins is another collector, but apparently one with limited funds. I’d like to know if any of their names have appeared in any official reports about this international trade in stolen objects.”

  “I hate to disillusion you or lose your respect, but I’m not really up to speed when it comes to this particular brand of illegal activity.”

  “I thought you might know somebody who is. There are a couple more names.” I looked at another smoke ring floating downwind. “David Brownington and Abraham Mahsimba. Both from Zimbabwe.”

  He arched a brow. “I thought Mahsimba was one of the good guys. You’re turning into a suspicious old man.”

  “All I know about this whole business is what Mahsimba has told me. And all I know about Mahsimba is what Stanley Crandel told me.”

  He ground the cigarette butt under his heel. “Bad habit, but I can’t seem to shake it. How are Zee and the kids?”

  “Zee’s working and the kids are in school. I’m the only one loafing.”

  “Nothing new about that.” We exchanged family news and a couple of fishing stories, then Begay said, “Well, I’ll see what I can dig up on those names, but don’t count any chickens yet.”

  “I won’t.” We shook hands and I drove home, thinking.

  When I’d first taken this job, it had seemed odd to me that the eagles might have ended up on the island, of all places, but now I saw that they could be here as logically as anyplace else, since the Vineyard was home to more than its share of rich people who were collectors of fine art. If you had the money and the desire to collect artifacts, legally or illegally, why not do it here, where you lived at least part of the year, and where your privacy was enhanced by the Vineyard’s long tradition of leaving its rich and famous citizens alone?

  And if you were a dealer in stolen art, that same tradition would make the island an ideal location from which to do business. Your office and storage area could be in one of those large old houses at the end of a long, sandy driveway, a very private place that was almost never seen by anyone but family, friends, and hired help.

  If there actually was a Vineyard trade in pilfered artifacts, it seemed it would be easy to get the merchandise to and from the island, because there were boats and planes, both private and public, coming and going every day, all year long.

  But maybe not.

  I wondered how I would do it if I were in the business. Could I tie up my own boat to some dock and load or unload freight without eventually attracting unwanted attention? Would anyone wonder about the crates and bundles I loaded or unloaded from my plane?

  Would it be better to use legitimate freight services like UPS or FedEx? They could deliver almost anything almost anywhere, and were extremely dependable.

  I remembered reading about some great diamond, the Cullinan, perhaps, being shipped from South Africa to England for cutting. To deceive would-be thieves, much publicity had been devoted to a special ship that would carry the stone north, but it had actually been sent in a small box by regular post since the royal mail was such a dependable carrier.

  Maybe I would use the U.S. mail to transport my purloined artifacts.

  Maybe I could just drive my own van back and forth from the mainland. Why not? If I mixed legitimate art sales with illegal ones, no one would think much about my coming and going.

  Had Matthew Duarte owned a van? I hadn’t seen one, but maybe it was parked in his barn beside the climate-controlled room that held his art objects until they could be sold.

  At the end of our driveway I checked the mailbox. Empty. Curious, because in this age of endless catalogs, we always get junk mail if nothing else. I went down our driveway and found the reason why: Zee’s little Jeep was parked in the yard. She’d come home early from the hospital. Curious again, because Zee, a dedicated healer, almost never came home early.

  I parked and stepped out and immediately heard voices from the gardens beyond the porch. Zee’s and another I thought I knew. I went and saw that I was right. Mahsimba and Zee were standing amid the raised beds, wineglasses in their hands, talking and laughing.

  Zee saw me and waved, and Mahsimba turned and looked at me with his deep, golden eyes.

  “Get yourself a beer and join us,” Zee called. “I’m giving Mahsimba another guided tour of our vegetables and flowers.”

  I nodded and went into the house, where I took my time pouring myself a Sam Adams before carrying my mug back outside.

  “You’re home early,” I said to Zee.

  “Mahsimba finished his gallery visits earlier than we expected, so I brought him home for a drink before the kids get out of school.”

  “I didn’t know you were working together,” I said. “I thought you were at the hospital.”

  “Your wife has been kind enough to be my driver this afternoon,” said Mahsimba. “She has been a great help, since I must consult maps to find my way about your island. Because of her assistance, I believe I’ve now visited every gallery that is open.”

  “I took the afternoon off,” said Zee in a delicate voice. “Mattie and John were both busy, so I stood in.”

  I looked at Mahsimba. “Have you learned anything useful?”

  He made a small gesture with his free hand. “I’ve found that there is a good market for art, and that much of what is for sale is of quite high quality, including objects from abroad. There is also a considerable market for antiques, again including objects from abroad. Your small island is quite a sophisticated place, I find.”

  “We also have some people who’ve never been as far as Nantucket, and others who can barely read.”

  He nodded. “That is the case in all communities. But I don’t think that those citizens are central to my inquiries. The others—the wealthy, the well traveled, the educated—those are the people of interest to me. The eagles I seek will not be found in the home of a poor or ignorant man or woman. They will be found in some great house or museum.” He sipped his wine and Zee’s eyes followed his hand while it plucked a weed from a flower box. Then his eyes rose to mine. “And how have your investigations gone, J.W.? Have you learned anything of interest?”

  “I’ve learned some things. Whether they have anything to do with the eagles remains to be seen.”

  “Tell me.”

  So I told him about everything except my visit to Joe Begay. I don’t tell anybody everything.

  17

  By the time I finished my narrative, we were sitting on the balcony, looking out over the yard and gardens toward the barrier beach on the far side of Sengekontacket Pond.

  “You seem to have covered a lot of ground in a single day,” said Zee.

  “There’s more to cover.”

  Mahsimba’s voice was rich and melodious. “You have spoken to three people whose names I’ve heard in my own inquiries: Mauch, Hall, and Jenkins. They seem to be well known to the owners and managers of the galleries I’ve been visiting. Perhaps I should speak with them myself.”

  “Perhaps you should. You know a lot more about this matter than I do.” As I spoke I heard the faint running-brook sound of children’s voices and laughter. Joshua and Diana had gotten off their school bus and were coming down the driveway. As I rose, I said to Mahsimba, “If you like, you can use our phone to call them right now. Then, tomorrow, if they’re willing to meet with you, I’ll take you to them.” I looked at Zee. “I’ll go down and meet the k
ids. You two finish your drinks.”

  Without waiting for a reply I went down the stairs.

  “Hi, Pa!”

  “How was school?”

  “It was okay.”

  “Did you read?”

  “Yes. Pa, we’re hungry.”

  We went inside and I set milk and oatmeal cookies on the table. They dropped their backpacks and climbed into chairs.

  “Pa?”

  “What?”

  “Can we have a dog?”

  “No. No dogs. We have cats. Oliver Underfoot and Velcro.”

  “A puppy almost followed me home today. If he follows me home again, can we keep him?”

  “No. If he follows you home, he’ll follow me right to the dog pound.”

  “What’s a dog pound, Pa?”

  “It’s a jail for dogs.”

  “All our friends have dogs.”

  “Good. You can play with their dogs.”

  Zee and Mahsimba came in.

  “Ma?”

  “What, sweetie?”

  “Can we have a dog?”

  “Ah, the old play-the-parents-against-each-other trick, eh? What did your father say?”

  “He said the puppy would go to jail.”

  “What puppy?” She gave them a skeptical look. “Not one that followed you home, I suppose?”

  The children exchanged glances and chewed their cookies.

  “One that almost followed them home today and might follow them home later,” I said.

  “Oh, that puppy,” said Zee. “Well, you know how your father feels about dogs.”

  “In my country,” said Mahsimba, “some people eat dogs. They say it’s very good meat.”

  Joshua and Diana stared at him with big eyes. “They eat puppies?”

  Mahsimba nodded solemnly. “I do not eat them myself, you understand, but others do. Is that why you want a dog? To eat it?”

  “No!”

  I rubbed my chin. “Maybe I’ve been wrong, kids. Maybe we should get a dog. I like to cook.”

  “No!” Diana shook her little head. “You can’t cook our dog, Pa!”

  “Just to be sure, we probably shouldn’t have any dog at all.”

  It was an ongoing issue in our house. My position was that people who own dogs are slaves to animals who also want to be slaves. If you have a dog, you have to walk it, feed it, clean up after it, and allow yourself to be slathered by a creature that only wants to know what it can do for you. I prefer cats, who don’t care what you want unless it gets them what they want. When it came to dogs, I considered myself an abolitionist. No slaves for me. No being a slave, either.

  “Your father is only joking about eating dogs,” said Zee, giving me a hard look.

  “Is that right, Pa?”

  “Well, maybe. But Mahsimba wasn’t joking. Were you, Mahsimba?”

  “No, indeed,” said Mahsimba.

  “So,” I said, “we’re agreed, then. No dogs.”

  The children chewed.

  “Pa?”

  “What?”

  “Can we have a ferret?”

  “No! No ferrets. They eat ferrets in Africa, you know.”

  Diana looked at Mahsimba, but before she could speak, he said, “You mentioned that I might use your telephone, J.W.”

  “If you use the one in the bedroom, you’ll have some privacy.”

  “Right through that door,” said Zee, pointing.

  The children studied me carefully.

  “No ferrets,” I said again.

  They chewed their cookies and exchanged glances. It’s not easy being the children of a tyrant.

  When Mahsimba came from the bedroom, the children were out in the yard, playing in the slanting afternoon light, and I was in Archie Bunker’s chair reading Blake’s poetry and wondering once again whether I was getting it. With Blake it’s hard to tell. Zee came out of the kitchen.

  “I have spoken with Charles Mauch, Mrs. Hall, and Gerald Jenkins,” said Mahsimba, “and they have agreed to meet with me tomorrow morning.” He paused, then added with a small smile, “It was not my impression that they were all eager to do so.”

  “Mahsimba, you must join us for supper,” said Zee, lifting her chin a bit as she glanced at me.

  “Good idea,” I said. “I’ll give Mattie a call and tell her we’ve stolen you for the evening. I’ll drive you over to John and Mattie’s place after we eat and pick you up there in the morning.”

  “I’m delighted to accept your invitation.” Mahsimba inclined his head and straightened again. He turned to Zee. “May I assist you in the kitchen, Zeolinda?”

  “No, you may not,” I said, putting my book aside and standing up. “Because I’m the cook. The two of you can go back to the balcony and admire the sunset. I’ll call you when the food is ready.”

  Zee gave me a curious, dreamy look as they carried their drinks up the stairs. While I cooked I could hear the faint sounds of their voices and laughter.

  The next morning when I got to John and Mattie’s place to pick up Mahsimba, Mattie ushered me back out onto the porch while Mahsimba was carrying his coffee cup to the sink. She looked up at me with guarded eyes.

  “I think your wife may be slightly smitten with our guest.”

  I said nothing.

  “He’s handsome and exotic,” said Mattie, glancing back into the house. “I doubt if she’s ever met anyone like him.”

  “She’s never met anyone like me, either,” I said, putting on a smile.

  “I’m serious, J.W.” She placed a hand on my arm. “I know it’s probably none of my business, but I thought I should tell you. It worries me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “She was moody even before he came.”

  “I know.”

  “I—” She broke off as Mahsimba came out the door, then went on. “I…I hope you learn something useful today, so you can both get back to your normal lives.”

  Return to Normalcy. Wasn’t that Harding’s promise to America?

  “It is a worthy hope,” said Mahsimba, “and one I share.”

  We climbed into the Land Cruiser.

  “Do you have a schedule,” I asked, “or do we just visit these people as we come to them?”

  “Mr. Mauch has agreed to meet me at nine, Mrs. Hall at ten, and Mr. Jenkins said he’d be at home all day.”

  As we drove toward Vineyard Haven, I said, “I’ll go in with you if you wish, or I can stay in the car. You might learn more if you’re alone. Mauch was not too pleased with me.”

  “Ah, yes. He blamed you for distressing the woman, as I recall. Rose Abrams; was that her name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let us hope that Miss Abrams has recovered by now. I’d like to have you come in with me, if you are willing and if Mr. Mauch has no objections, so you can compare what you saw and heard before with what you see and hear today.”

  “Fine. I’ll go in and if Mauch objects, I’ll go out again.”

  As it turned out, Mauch frowned but didn’t object, and I followed him and Mahsimba down the art-filled corridor to his office. Nothing, including Mauch, looked different than it had the day before.

  The other two sat in crested leather chairs, and I took a smaller seat to one side.

  Mauch looked at Mahsimba. “I don’t know what I can tell you that I didn’t tell Mr. Jackson yesterday.”

  Mahsimba’s eyes had been taking in the room’s adornments but now met Mauch’s. He smiled. “Well, sir, your name interests me. Are you by any chance a descendant of the Carl Mauch who first published descriptions of Great Zimbabwe back in the 1870s?”

  Mauch leaned back. “As a matter of fact, he was my great-grandfather. You are one of the few who has made that link. You know your country’s history, obviously.”

  “And would I be amiss to presume that your interest in the art of ancient cultures may be a continuance of your family’s interests since Carl Mauch’s time?”

  Mauch nodded. “You would not be amiss. I should tell you
, however, that my great-grandfather’s theories about the origins of Great Zimbabwe are not shared by me. I do not, for instance, subscribe to the notion that the place was built by the Phoenicians, or that the wood used for the lintels was imported from the Queen of Sheba.” He allowed himself a smile.

  Mahsimba returned it. “Your knowledge of the ruins is clearly considerable, so you are, of course, familiar with the Zimbabwe eagles. That gives me hope that you may be of real assistance to me.”

  Mauch glanced at me. “I regret to tell you that you’re mistaken. As I told Mr. Jackson yesterday, I am not a specialist in African art, and I’ve neither seen nor heard anything about the eagles. I recommended that he speak with Mr. and Mrs. Butters and Matthew Duarte.” He hesitated. “That was before I knew of Matthew’s death, of course.”

  “Of course. You also spoke with Mr. Jackson about the international trade in stolen art. Are you familiar with any such trade existing here on Martha’s Vineyard?”

  Mauch tapped a finger against the leather arm of his chair. Then he shook his head. “I know of none.” His brief smile had gone away. “There are rumors, of course, but I don’t believe I’ll pass them along. It’s all idle gossip.”

  Mahsimba nodded understandingly. “Such gossip can be both ugly and wrong. Naturally you don’t want to be a part of it. Let me change the subject. As a collector yourself, and an expert in your field, tell me: Would the seller of artwork that might have been illegally obtained from ancient sites have to be very discreet about peddling his wares? Or could he be fairly open about it?”

  “That,” said Mauch, “would depend entirely upon the object in question. Only a very few collectors would knowingly purchase art that they knew had been stolen, such as that taken from Jews by the Nazis, for instance. On the other hand, all but the most culturally sensitive of collectors would probably feel free to buy an object that had no pedigree, even though they might suspect that it was loot from some unauthorized dig. Private collections and even great museums are full of such objects.”

  “Including yours?” I asked.

  Mauch surprised me by not getting angry. Instead he smiled and nodded.