"I don't want to see his name in the papers, okay? He's out in Los Angeles for a week or two. He's helping his brother close a big deal for BerkAir. He comes back, be my guest."
Berk shuffled over to the elevator and pressed the button, waiting for it to open.
"You send him out of town to get over the girl?" Mike asked.
"He's like his old man, detective. The girls love him. Two weeks out in Malibu he'll find someone more his type. More my type, too. You need somebody to pick up the pieces of what's-her-name's broken bones? Lucy? Talk to Alden."
"What?"
"Hubert Alden. That's his kind of trash."
"You were pretty sure of that when you suggested to Mr. Vicci that he dangle Lucy in front of Alden at the audition."
Berk stepped in the elevator and turned to face us. "That wasn't the first time Alden saw the girl. I know my players, detective. You look surprised. Did he tell you something different?"
Mike's expression must have given him away. "You're certain of that?"
"I'm not a mentalist, sonny. I'm no Houdini. The girl was two-timing my kid with Alden. I saw it with my very own eyes."
The doors closed and Joe Berk vanished without telling us when or where.
29
"We can stop for lunch, swing by your apartment to pick up whatever you need, and I can still get you to the airport for the three o'clock shuttle to Boston."
"That's fine. What are you in the mood for?"
"Fresco," Mike said. "Can you get us in?"
The Scottos ran a superb restaurant on East 52nd Street, packed with a power crowd at lunch as well as in the evening. I called and Marian sneaked us into a table in the bar, skirting us past folks who'd reserved the prime tables in the main dining room.
"Don't be doing one of those salad things on me," Mike said, opening the extensive menu. "The food's too good."
"You're right," I said, asking the waiter for cavatelli with sausage and broccoli rabe, while Mike ordered the grilled bronzino.
As hard as I tried to bring the conversation around to how he was dealing with Valerie's death, he wouldn't allow me to go there. As soon as we got off the subject of work, he snapped back into an introspective-almost sullen-mood.
Mike waited in the car while I went up to my apartment to change out of my chalk-striped business suit and heels into a turtleneck sweater, slacks, and my driving moccasins. The Vineyard would be cooler than the city, especially at night. I kept enough clothes there so I didn't have to carry a suitcase back and forth, and had only a small tote with some things I'd bought for the house since my last trip.
At that hour of the afternoon, the ride to LaGuardia was only twenty minutes from the Upper East Side. We talked about our impressions of the characters we had met in the case, and what secrets each seemed to be hiding from us, and then I asked Mike how he planned to spend the weekend as we approached the US Airways terminal for my flight.
"I'll see what Peterson turns up on Ralph Harney. We've still got to cross-check background and alibis on all the guys who live on Staten Island or near the Watchung Mountains."
"How about Chet Dobbis?"
"I want to do him myself. Try to get to Hubert Alden's office, too. See what he's like in his natural habitat."
"It wouldn't be the first time someone who presents himself to us so cleanly has a seamier side. You'll call me if you get anywhere, won't you?"
"Sure. When does Joanie arrive?"
"Tomorrow. She's flying up from D.C., so we were supposed to meet in Boston and go over together in the morning. I'll call her to explain when I get there."
"You don't mind being alone tonight, do you? Your letter bomber's behind bars."
I smiled at Mike. "You didn't give me much choice, did you?"
"Bring me a doggy bag, Coop."
"I know. Fried clams from the Bite," I said. Mike had spent a lot of time with me on the Vineyard over the years, and agreed that the most delicious clams in the universe, as I liked to brag, were served from a little wooden shack in Menemsha, owned by my old friends the Quinn sisters.
"And give my love to the Baroness von Clam," he said, referring to the nickname he'd bestowed on Karen Quinn, who flirted with him notoriously whenever we showed up for lunch.
"Will do." I said good-bye and walked through the revolving door to buy my e-ticket at the kiosk. I couldn't remember another occasion when Mike had dropped me off without parking the car and hanging out with me until flight time, but then everything seemed slightly different these days since Val's death.
I made my way through the metal detectors and sat-shoeless- to be wanded and patted down by the security crew. The plane was late coming in from Boston, so there was a delay in the servicing before we boarded.
I sat alone at a window seat for die smooth fifty-minute flight, then repeated the check-in process again at the busy Cape Air counter, which rolled out its tiny Cessnas to the Vineyard and Nantucket, Hyannis and Providence, with impressive order and timeliness.
The flight was full-a pilot and eight passengers-so I settled quickly into place in the cramped cabin. I tucked my legs in front of me to make room for the man who took the seat next to me, separated by a space so narrow that one could hardly describe it as an aisle, and made the mistake of engaging him by thanking him for waiting while I got comfortable and fastened my belt.
"What are you reading?" he asked.
I held up the book jacket. "Daniel Deronda."
"That's the author?"
"No, it's the name of the novel. George Eliot wrote it-her last book."
The two propellers were revved up to maximum speed as we started to pull away from the terminal. Their noise and the likelihood of bouncing around in the air pockets frequently encountered at the low altitude of Cape Air's short flights made conversation difficult most of the time. That and the fact that I was reading an obscure Victorian novel probably known only to English literature devotees and librarians these days should have been enough to ensure that my seat partner left me alone.
As the plane vibrated on the deeply potholed runway, my neighbor leaned his head in toward me. "What do you do?"
"Excuse me?"
"I asked what you do for a living."
I gave him my best grin. "I'm a single mom. Four kids."
I had gotten from coast to coast and from New York to Europe several times without ever having to make small talk to guys sitting next to me after giving that answer. It was a foolproof conversation killer with lonely businessmen angling for a pickup.
"That's great. How old are they?"
He was either lying or dumber than he looked. "Six, four, and the twins-they're two. I've cornered the market on diapers."
I smiled and put my nose back in the book until he spoke again. "I love kids. You have pictures?"
"They're in my tote. I gate-checked it." I assumed he was a comic or a pedophile, seemingly undaunted by my imaginary brood. But I liked his face, despite my initial instincts. His nose was crooked and he had wire-rimmed glasses that sat too far down on its bridge to look comfortable, but showed off the gray-blue cast of his eyes.
"What kind of mother are you? Can't believe you don't have snapshots in your wallet."
We climbed slowly up out of Logan. If this guy was planning to chat me up the whole way, it would be a tedious thirty-three minutes.
"It's so rare we're apart that I don't need pictures to remind me. Can't ever have a moment's peace with four of them demanding attention. Feed me, change me, blow my nose, feed me again. You know how it is." If that didn't make it clear to him, I didn't know what would.
The wingtip caught the edge of a cloud and the plane started rolling in the clear-air turbulence. I turned my head to stare out the window into the thick white mass we had just entered,
"You a nervous flier?"
"Not at all. I don't mean to be rude, but I think I need to nap for a bit. Just tired," I said, leaning my head against the small window and closing my eyes. It seemed to b
e my only tine of defense.
I actually slept for twenty minutes, shaken awake on the rough descent through the thick clouds over the Elizabeth Islands. We set down on the short runway of the Vineyard airport and taxied to the terminal.
My neighbor offered his hand. "By the way, I'm Dan Bolin. I've got my car here, if you need a lift."
"Thanks a lot," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I'm all set."
"Your name is?"
"Stafford. Joan Stafford." I hoped Joanie didn't mind that I had saddled her with four hungry little mouths to feed. And there I'd been with Mike a few hours back, wondering why people find it so easy to lie to us.
The steps had been lowered and the passengers were descending from the center of the plane. Dan Bolin waited for me to get off, but as I took my time walking back to the terminal building, he waved good-bye and headed for the parking lot. I had arranged for my care taker to leave my car there for me, so I stopped in the Plane View restaurant and loitered over a cup of coffee to give Bolin the chance to be out of my way.
There was just enough daylight left for me to enjoy the stunning vistas as I made my way through the familiar curves and hills of Chilmark. The old Grange Hall, the dirt road cutoff to Black Point Beach, the calm glade of Abel's Hill cemetery, the seventeenth-century stone walls that lined the pasture of the Allen sheep farm, and then the sun setting on the water at the town landing by the Stonewall bridge. I could race the remaining two miles to my sanctuary, the old farm-house that sat high over Menemsha Pond with a commanding view of the rich green landscapes and the blues of Quitsa and the Vineyard Sound far beyond.
My gardens were prepped and dressed for spring. The forsythia gave off a golden glow on either side of the gates marked by granite pillars, and the crushed white quahog shells that served as driveway dressing brightened the grassy surround. An array of pastel-colored tulips stood on either side of the front door, while sprouts of daffodils haphazardly dotted the yard and punctuated the formal plantings, which had not yet bloomed along the bordering walls. All of these hearty April flowers seemed to be taunting the deer to come and taste them.
No matter how severe the stress, no matter how profound the problems I encountered at work, when I reached my Chilmark home, it was as though every pore opened and relieved me of the pressure building up inside. I didn't forget the images in crime scene photos or the details of an autopsy report, but somehow I could put them in perspective and be restored by the beauty and peacefulness of this one place on earth I loved above all others.
The inside of the house had been readied for my arrival, and I smiled with pleasure at the personal touches that welcomed me back. In every room there was a small bouquet of flowers from my own gardens, dry logs were laid in the fireplace-flue open and matches on the mantel next to my collection of old ivory crustaceans-crisp new linens had been laundered to refresh the palette of my bedroom, and a pint of my favorite clam chowder from the Homeport was next to a pot on the oven to be heated for dinner.
I called Joan Stafford to explain the change of plans and told her I'd pick her up at the airport at noon. I took asteam shower and wrapped myself in a warm robe before moving into the living room to light the fire and settle in with the evening news and an old Bar-bara Stanwyck movie. When I got hungry, I warmed up the chowder and then watched the second half of the flick with a glassful of Dewar's.
Despite the fact that some of the perils of the job had found a way to the island from time to time, and that even my home had been the scene of a frightening intrusion, the changes that I had made to my security system over the years kept me comfortable here and completely at ease. I slept well, lulled by the steady noises of the crickets and awakened only by the early-morning light through the glass panes of the French doors in my bedroom, with the cries of robins searching for worms in my wildflower field.
My first foray out was to the Chilmark Store, for the morning papers and a cup of coffee that I drank, picking on a cinnamon bun, while rocking in a chair on the deck. I greeted islanders who had been longtime friends-fishermen, painters, construction workers, post office employees, waitresses, and the librarian-asking and answering the obligatory start-of-season questions about how the winter had gone. For all of us who lived or worked on the western tip of the island, past Beetlebung Corner, this general store was our lifeline- the center of the universe for food, supplies, news, and gossip.
Back at the house, I took my ten-speed bike out of the barn and set off for the Aquinnah Cliffs on State Road, glad for the first exercise I'd had in a week, coasting down past the dunes of Moshup's trail and saving my energy for the last winding hill on the way back to my house.
I called to check on Joan's flight, which was scheduled to land on time, so I put the top down on the vintage Mustang and drove to the airport, nested in the middle of the island within the state forest, to pick her up.
Joan's exuberance was hard to contain in a confined space, and she began blowing kisses to me the moment she emerged in the doorway of the small plane and made her way down the short stairway.
I stood behind the gate at the edge of the tarmac and she dropped her bag to hug me as she stepped out of the way of the other passengers.
"It must be love," I said. "You look stunning."
"Love-and then, of course, Kenneth. You like the highlights?" She spun in place, referring to the legendary hairdresser who had given her a new look.
We locked arms and walked inside to the rack where the luggage was delivered. There was no such thing as traveling light for Joan.
I picked up her duffel bag and started toward the car. "You won't need half of whatever is in here."
"I've brought some things for you. I know, I know-not necessary, but I did. And you've got to read my manuscript. I'm almost halfway done with the new book. That's in there, too. I didn't know if we'd be going out so I brought some extra clothes."
"And Jim? How is he?"
"He's the best. He's wonderful, Alex. And he sends lots of love."
We had been pals for a very long time and there was nothing that relaxed me more than curling up on opposite ends of a sofa with women I trusted and adored-like Joan and Nina Baum-to unload my problems and listen to theirs, or simply to dish about guys, clothes, kids, and anything else that came to mind.
"You'll catch me up on what he's doing. It's your call: we can go out for dinner tonight-the Cornerway, the Galley, the Beach Plum, Bittersweet, the Outermost," I said, ticking off my favorite restaurants, "or we can stop at Larsen's Fish Market and ask them to cook and split a couple of lobsters for us. Then we just take them home and chill them until it's time to eat."
"Perfect. Let's go out tomorrow night. Have you got any really great wine?"
"Some Corton Charlemagne."
"Whoops. Sorry I asked. Jake's favorite, if I remember correctly? Let's stay home and stuff ourselves in front of a roaring fire. We can drink you out of his leftover vino, darling, and then you can order something entirely new. We're over him, aren't we?"
"I'm trying, Joanie. Let's not go there."
We drove into Menemsha, the commercial fishing village that was my favorite part of the island. Along the dock where steel-hulled trawlers off-loaded their catch, old-timers watched from the wooden benches along Squid Row.
Betsy Larsen was in the kitchen, cooking lobster and working the raw bar, and her sister Kris was behind the counter. It would take twenty minutes to make our dinner, so Joan and I ordered a dozen oysters each and carried them out to eat as lunch down on the jetty, at the bight that led out to the sound.
We reached the house and I parked in front of the barn, opening the trunk to take out Joan's bag.
She was already on the step and called out to me as she pulled on an envelope that was wedged in between the screen and doorjamb.
"Did you do this?"
"What?"
"It's addressed to me," Joan said, tearing open the sealed paper.
I came up behind her and saw the daffodils bunched in
groups next to the granite step. They were soaking in four brightly colored pails-children's plastic sand buckets-lined up in graduated sizes, each full of the bright yellow flowers.
" 'For Joan,'" she read aloud to me. " 'Hoping to see you and the kids before too long.' It's signed Dan Bolin. I don't get it, Alex. I don't know anybody named Dan Bolin. Does this make any sense to you?"
30
"I think it's romantic."
"It makes my skin crawl. Creepy, not romantic."
"It's exactly what you get for lying to the guy. Especially, may I add, for using my name and giving me the added delight of mothering four little monsters. I almost asked him to join us for dinner tomorrow night."
"Spare me," I said. The Temptations were singing "I Can't Get Next to You," as I added two logs to the fire and opened the second bottle of wine. "It was a weird thing for the guy to do."
"That's the difference between us. You're always seeing perverts and madmen where I would find adventure and, well, sexiness. Thanks for giving him my name."
"Sexiness?"
"Well, it was a very sexy move. Admit it. To drive all the way up here from Edgartown with flowers for you. Have you forgotten how it's supposed to feel when a guy hits on you? Especially when he's cre-ative about doing it?"
Joan had called the phone number on the note that Bolin left at the door before we sat down for dinner. He had recognized me from the photographs in the paper and the evening news stories after the arrest of the Silk Stocking Rapist several months earlier. He knew I was pulling his leg from the first answer I gave and decided to play with me.
"In my business we call it stalking. Now I'll be up all night worried that the guy might actually find you in the D.C. phone directory. How's that for guilt?"
"You've been in your line of work too long."
"How did he know where I lived? That's not in the book."
"It's a friendly island. He told the kid who pumps gas in Men-emsha that he forgot which driveway was yours and got a very cheerful and accurate set of directions."
Death Dance Page 25