“Val? It’s Alex. Is this a bad time?”
“No, no. It’s fine. How’ve you been?”
“Good, thanks. Just came up to the country to prepare for the storm.” I didn’t know whether to mention that Mike had told me she hadn’t felt well lately. Before I could decide what to ask, he had taken the phone from her hand.
“Etymology, blondie. Whaddaya know about it?”
I was too disinterested to answer fast enough.
“Me? I thought it was bugs. I’m fat on bugs-figured I would have cleaned up on you tonight. Who knew it was about words? O.K., you know, the initials? Know what they stand for?”
“Count me out, Mike. Look-”
“From the Boston Morning Post, 1839. Some cellist from Ottawa won fourteen grand on this. An editor who couldn’t spell right used it back then to mean ‘oll korrect.’ Get it? ‘All correct’ gets muffed into O.K. “
“Riveting. I called to tell you the latest snag in the case.”
“Can’t you give it a rest, kid? Don’t go snapping at me. I got my jammies on, about to have my nightcap-”
“Fine. Call me in the morning. The next dead body can be on your conscience.”
Mike’s tone changed and he snapped into business mode. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s up?”
“Funny stuff with Tiffany Gatts and her lawyer,” I said.
“How funny? Laugh out loud?”
“Not exactly. She’s willing to squeal on Kevin, but says if she does, her life’s in danger. Someone’s going to kill her mama, too.”
“Better be bringing a cannon for that job.”
“Helena Lisi’s just a front,” I said.
“For what?”
“For the brains behind the operation, I have to think. Somebody else is paying the legal bills, but doesn’t want to be connected to the courtroom. You’ve got to find out who that is. Yesterday.”
“You don’t think Lisi will tell you, if you ask nice?”
“I can hear her start to whine before I even pose the question. I could try to subpoena her to the grand jury, on the theory that there’s a criminal conspiracy, but she’ll move to quash and we’ll be arguing that one till doomsday.”
“Lawyer-client privilege?”
“Even the Supremes let us get into some disclosures about fees in certain circumstances, but I’m counting on you to beat the clock. Maybe you start with Mrs. Gatts. See what she knows.”
“So there’s a new lawyer?”
“Shadow counsel. A stupid artifice that could undermine the whole case, and certainly toss a conviction, if we get anywhere close to one. If we nail Kevin-or someone else for Queenie’s murder-this schmuck just becomes part of a fraud that greased the wheels for Tiffany to slide right into our laps, without any real representation.”
“Got it.”
“Thanks, Mike. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Deal,” he said, as I started to sign off. “Coop? You okay up there? You’re not alone, are you?”
“We’re fine,” I said, misleading him with the plural pronoun. “Promise. Speak to you tomorrow.”
I hung up and hit the number of Jake’s cell phone. “Hey,” I said as he came on the line. “Can’t believe I got you on one ring.”
I stretched out on the sofa and cradled the phone against my shoulder.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Home. The Vineyard.” Jake knew it was the one place in the world where I was most content. The tension sloughed off my shoulders within half an hour of my arrival here, even in the worst of circumstances. “And you?”
“Didn’t Laura give you the message? I’m trying to get up there, too.”
“I haven’t even checked the machine. I-I just needed to hear your voice.”
“I’m at Reagan National. Nothing’s flying out at the moment. The wind has increased and the first bit of the storm is about to hit.”
The Vineyard weather was anywhere from twelve to eighteen hours behind D.C.‘s, depending on the speed the system picked up along the way. I could expect Hurricane Gretchen to reach our shores by tomorrow afternoon.
“Go back to the hotel. The airport here has probably shut down already.”
“That’s not a problem. I was planning to fly to Logan and get down in the morning if I had to. Till I had a brainstorm.”
“What’s that?” I smiled, pulling a throw over my legs and stirring the ice cubes in the glass with my finger.
“I’m about a concourse away from the row of rental booths. I figure I’ll get a car, turn the music up loud, drive up to Woods Hole-even if it takes the better part of the night-and be there in time for the first ferry. Nothing cozier than a great storm. We can stay the whole weekend and-”
I sat bolt upright and swung my legs to the floor, tangling myself in the mohair blanket. I shrieked into the receiver, “You can’t do that, Jake. Please don’t do that.”
Didn’t he remember what had happened to Adam Nyman, my fianc��, on the night before we were supposed to be married? Driving to the Vineyard from Manhattan, he’d been killed when his car had been sideswiped on the turnpike and had crashed down onto a riverbed below.
Jake clearly didn’t connect the urgency in my voice to that tragedy. “Darling, either Mike’s right about the fact that you’re entirely too controlling,” he joked, “or you’re stowed away up there with some other foul-weather aficionado who doesn’t want me in the neighborhood. C’mon, babe, the all-night drive’ll make me feel like I’m in college again.”
The static on his phone was masking the panic that had seized me.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I kept repeating, until I could break into his response. “Don’t you understand, Jake? It’s-it’s about Adam. It’s too painful to bear. Ten hours of highway driving, half of it bound to be in a blinding storm?”
“It’s not raining yet, Alex. The roads are-”
“You’re missing the point. I’m begging you not to do this, Jake. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you on your way here. Wait till the front passes and fly up if you want, for the weekend. Just swear to me you won’t try to drive it.”
His tone chilled. “There’s probably a good reason you don’t want me up there with you. I’m sure you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
I tried again to make him see it from my perspective, but he was still clipped when we said our good nights.
I picked up my glass and wandered into the bedroom. I felt more alone than I had in a very long time. I turned the steam unit on in the shower and set the temperature at ninety-nine degrees, letting it warm up while I undressed.
The phone rang but I ignored it. There was no point in arguing with Jake, so I opted to let the machine record the message while I listened.
“You there, Coop? You outside baying at the moon?”
“Just screening, Mike,” I said, grabbing the receiver from its dock. “You forget to tell me to have pleasant dreams?”
“Val’s a whiz with the computer. Got me onto the website for Lisi and Lisi, the husband-and-wife law firm, so I’d have a head start in the morning.”
“I didn’t mean to get you riled up on Val’s time, Mike. Tomorrow is fine.”
“Forget Helena. What do you know about Jimmy Lisi?”
“Former Legal Aid. Pretty decent guy.”
“Interesting bio, Coop. Born on the other side. Very proud of his roots.”
“Why not?” I could see the steam misting on the glass door of the shower, and I ached to get inside and relax.
“Generalissimo Lisi, Jimmy’s pop. Know anything about him?”
“Tell me.”
“Jimmy was born in Rome. His old man rose through the ranks, wound up as head goombah in the Italian Secret Service. Puts him right near the kitchen where they cooked up some potent pasta e fagi��li for Farouk the night he croaked back in sixty-five.”
“I like it,” I said, putting down the scotch and picking up a pen and pad.
“So I did
the same kind of check for the other lawyers in the case. Unfortunately, the law firms that those guys are with don’t do the same kind of family sagas on-line, like the Lisis. Just have their fancy degrees and the alma maters listed.”
“C’mon, Mike. I can tell you found something else that tweaked you.”
“So Jimmy Lisi gets to college-Yale, by the way-and ends up in the same frat as a guy whose old man was also a spook in Rome, for the Brits, at the very same time Lisi’s dad was doing spy work.”
“I see where this is going. Forget about Josh Braydon and his shadow counsel role. We need to find out who’s pulling the strings behind Helena Lisi.”
“Maybe,” Mike said, “the man Tiffany Gatts is afraid of is actually Peter Robelon.”
33
The view from my bedroom’s French doors out over the lawn that sloped down to the pond was a muted palette of grays and greens, moistened by a steady rainfall. Trees and tall grasses seemed colored by a dull assortment of Crayolas, and the pale sky hung heavily overhead. Only the whitecaps in the distance suggested that this calm before the storm would kick up and show its stuff within a few hours.
I drove to the Chilmark Store for coffee and the Times, and to reassure myself that there were plenty of people I knew who wouldn’t be all that far away if Hurricane Gretchen packed her anticipated wallop.
“I’m running low on candles and flashlight batteries,” Primo said. The owner was restocking his shelves with storm supplies. “Better take plenty while you’re here, Alex. I’m closing early.”
I picked up a fistful of C batteries, extra matches, boxes of candles, and rolls of masking tape and took them to the checkout counter. “Can you put this on my tab?”
“Sure. Need a hand with anything out your way?” Primo asked.
“I’m all set, thanks. This should do it. Would you save me a newspaper in the morning?”
“If they get to the island, Alex. Steamship Authority’s gonna stop the ferries if the swells get real big.”
“Of course,” I said, embarrassed about forgetting how these self-sufficient islanders were cut off from all normal services whenever Mother Nature got angry.
I was back in the house at eight-thirty, and tried to find Jake, to apologize. Voice mail answered at his home, his cell phone, and the office. Maybe he was mimicking my habit of screening calls, or maybe he was paying me back for last night. Could he have really thought I was keeping him away because I was settled in here with someone else?
“Hey, it’s me. Horatio Hornblower,” I told his recorded message. Jake loved to make fun of my bright yellow foul-weather gear, and here I was pulling the rubberized hood back up over my head to go out and haul the deck furniture into the barn. “Call me when you get a chance, okay? I’m trying to hunker down for the storm. Miss you.”
I went through the old summer kitchen, refitted as an office, and out the side entrance that led to the sheep barn, built more than a century ago. I pulled open the door and surveyed the space. The Gravely and mower took up a third of it, while the workbench and Adam’s antique tool collection stretched along two complete walls. I shuffled around some of the gardening equipment to make room for everything that needed to come inside.
I spent the next two hours ferrying recliners, chairs, and tables from the rear decks around the building into the barn. I had been here for too many storms to risk chancing the results of Hurricane Gretchen’s fury-chairs lifted and blown hundreds of yards away, and tables hurled against the side of the house, shattering windows and spreading glass all over the interior floors.
At eleven o’clock, I paused to make a cup of hot chocolate and sit at the kitchen table to dry out and listen to the radio. The marine forecast issued alerts for gale-force winds, and news bulletins tracked the eye of the storm as it buffeted the Connecticut coastline. Flooding and downed electrical lines had already caused five deaths in the New York area.
I put my slicker on again and circled the property for a last check. The wind was picking up, and I walked down to the edge of the wildflower field to recover the bird feeders. The last cosmos that stood amid the elephant grass were losing their heads to the elements, and the rain swept away small flecks of white and fuchsia petals.
My caretaker’s cottage, beyond the rise at the foot of the hill, looked snug and tight. It was two small rooms, an old Menemsha fisherman’s shack that once stood on the dock and had been moved up here in the sixties, before Adam and I bought the place. Now charmingly redecorated, it was home to an islander who maintained the property for me in exchange for a year-round residence.
Back inside, I hung up the rain jacket on a hook, stepped out of my boots, and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. I tried again to find Jake, with no better luck, and decided against leaving more messages.
A fresh cord of dry firewood was stacked in the bin beside the rear door, and another neat pile was in the fireplace, ready to be lighted. I knelt on the granite hearth and placed a match against the thin pine starters beneath the sturdy logs, watching the flames take and spread. I was ready to give up rock and roll in favor of some Beethoven piano concerti, music that I hoped would soothe and calm me.
Now the wind howled at the top of the chimney, drawing up the smoke and carrying it away. I stood and looked outside, watching the tall evergreens bend and sway with the pounding gusts that swept the hilltop.
The rolls of tape were in the kitchen, and I made the rounds of the rooms, standing on a chair to place X ‘s across the glass, corner to corner, on each of the enormous panes that afforded me such a glorious view.
As I balanced myself on my tiptoes in the bedroom, I heard a loud banging noise coming from the opposite side of the house. The tape dropped from my hand and rolled across the floor. I climbed down from the chair and followed after it. Retracing my steps through the kitchen and hallway, I found the front door open and swinging wildly as huge drafts of air pressed against it.
When I was at home, I rarely locked the doors. But the booming noise was so jarring that I pushed the door shut and turned the bolt. I circled the house, making sure the side entrance and the other two doors leading out onto the expansive rear deck were fastened as well, before going back to taping the glass.
Fierce weather spooked the animals. I was used to seeing that here in the country. Cottontail rabbits that usually didn’t appear until dusk were skittering across the lawn. A family of skunks huddled against each other under the leeward side of a beach plum tree. Flocks of birds were fighting the wind in an effort to steer themselves south.
I was just as unsettled as the wild creatures. Somehow this old farmhouse had weathered scores and scores of storms, but now a cedar shingle ripped loose from the barn roof and flung itself against the window, reminding me that the glass was all that stood between me and the approaching squall.
Again, I paced around the house, checking windowsills for places that had leaked before, and laying old beach towels beneath them. When I returned to the living room, I fixed myself a spicy Bloody Mary, switched on the radio to track the storm, reached for an old copy of Sterne’s Tristram Shandy in the bookshelf behind the fireplace, and settled onto the sofa to relax, read, and wait for Gretchen.
I must have fallen asleep, aided by the warm combination of the alcohol and fire. A loud thud right behind my head startled me awake. A large bird, some sort of grackle, had become disoriented and crashed against the pane. Dazed for a few seconds, it picked itself up and flew off with a few taunting squawks.
The day had changed. It was after three o’clock, and the sky had turned from a pastel gray to a deep black. Everything in the landscape was atilt, yielding to the power of the wind that was gusting at almost seventy miles an hour, according to the local newscaster.
For the next half hour, I felt as though I were on an amusement park ride that wouldn’t stop to let me off. Objects swirled around outside and thumped against the roof and sides of the house. Tree branches snapped in half with a terrible cracking sound and
slapped at my taped windows. I moved to sit on the floor in the middle of the room, fully expecting a limb or bough to hurtle itself through the glass and impale me against the sofa’s cushion.
It was exactly 4:05 in the afternoon when the flickering lights went out and the electricity went dead. No radio, no music, no quiet hum of kitchen appliances. The interior darkness mirrored the weather, and I inched closer to the fireplace to add more logs to my only source of warmth and light.
I had flashlights at the ready in every room. I turned one on and tried to continue to read, but the drama outside the window made reading impossible.
The storm raged for more than an hour. The strange noises of nature’s destructive forces had unnerved me. Old wooden floor-boards creaked and groaned, damp drizzle seeped in through cracks in doors and window sashes, squalls pounded against every surface of the house.
And something moved up above me. Footsteps in the empty second-floor bedrooms? I took the flashlight and followed the beam up the staircase. Squirrels, probably, or field mice. Had to be some frisky critter that had found its way inside or burrowed under the attic eaves.
I checked from room to room, but all seemed fine. I shined the ray into the bathroom, and highlighted a spider on the outer window screen, clinging to an iridescent web as the wind tried to tear it from its hold. Standing at the top of the stairs, I could hear the pitter-patter of small-clawed feet echoing over my head. Whatever was in the attic could spend the night. I wasn’t going up to investigate.
Now there seemed to be a distinct tapping coming from below me. I took three steps down and listened again. It was pitch-black, save for the narrow path of light leading from my hand. Lilac bushes stood outside the door. Their bare, hearty branches must have been scraping against the old six-over-six windows on the house’s facade.
I returned to the living room and tried to settle down again.
Still there was something besides noise that was disturbing me. There were shadows, too. I hadn’t put enough vodka in my drink three hours earlier to distort my vision, but ghostly shapes seemed to move back and forth along the length of the rear deck. I would have offered shelter to almost any form of animal life, but not to these weird, unwelcome dancing phantoms.
The Kills Page 28