The Kills

by Fairstein, Linda

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Ever see those photographs of the thirty-eight storm, the one that washed out half of Menemsha and killed scores of folk all over the area?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Check out the beach parking lot. Doesn’t exist anymore. It’s covered with mounds of sand, rocks the size of my head, dead fish everywhere. Makes you understand that mean old hurricane and why so many people died back then. Puts your own bad night in perspective.”

  It was only a short walk from police headquarters, past the closed shops and fish stores, to the gas dock at the marina adjacent to the state beach and jetty. I was stunned by the amount of destruction that Gretchen had visited on this strip of land. This was the road I had driven down the night before last, and now it was clear that water had breached the beachfront and swamped the pavement, making it unrecognizable as the same ground.

  I stepped in sandpiles that came up to the tops of my knee-high boots, bypassing crabs and shellfish that had been crushed by the waves. The Unicorn and Quitsa Strider, massive steel commercial-fishing boats, had weathered the storm just fine. But the old shacks that bordered the waterfront had thrown off shingles and shutters, pieces of wooden board sticking out from the sand all along the way that I walked.

  The lone outpost at the end of the road was a small gray building just beyond the harbormaster. On the land side, the gas pumps that fueled our cars were half-covered with what had once been Menemsha’s beach. The other side was known as Squid Row, where boats gassed up before heading back out to sea, through the Bight, onto the corner at Devil’s Bridge, where Vineyard Sound met the Atlantic Ocean. On a given morning, the old-timers filled the benches there, trading yarns and fish tales, while cabin cruisers vied for space at the dock with working boats that trolled the waters for blues and stripers.

  Cassie, the sixteen-year-old girl who usually pumped my gas, held open the door for me when she saw me coming in. “Hey, Alex, wasn’t that awesome last night?”

  “Guess so. Hope you were home with your folks.”

  “Yep. Drove down here this morning but had to leave the car at the top of the hill and walk down ‘cause of the sand and all. Picked up some stuff from Humphrey’s,” she said, lifting the lid on a box of pastries and baked goods. “Got a little generator, too, so we have some coffee brewed. Help yourself.”

  She turned away and walked to the door that opened onto the dock, pushing it and sticking her head out for a look at something. “Hey, Ozzie,” she called out to one of the ancient mariners seated with their backs against the shop, “let me know when that big one pulls in. I don’t want to miss her.”

  “She’s next. Get yourself out here,” came the reply.

  “Wanna see a beauty?” she asked me. “Fancy yacht out here waiting to fill up.”

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and grabbed three sugared doughnut holes before stepping out onto the dock and saying hello to several of the regulars who had parked themselves at the water’s edge for a bird’s-eye view of the day’s events. It was certain that there would be no traffic on the land side for the foreseeable future.

  By the time I stepped out onto Squid Row, the gleaming black-hulled vessel had maneuvered its way into the harbor and turned around so that its rear end was against the dock, ready to start refueling.

  The gold letters shined brightly as the sun glanced off them. Pirate was the name of the boat, and its home port was Nantucket. Graham Hoyt’s yacht.

  I closed my eyes and thought of last night’s prowler. Could it possibly have been Graham Hoyt? How could I have forgotten that he was the one who first talked to me about coming to the Vineyard because of the storm?

  The first mate and steward, dressed in crisp white sweatshirts with the yacht’s name and outline emblazoned on the chest, were tying up along the pier. Cassie was asking them if they needed help and trying to make herself useful.

  I started to make small talk with them, too, anxious to find out where they-and their skipper-had spent the previous evening. “She’s a beauty. Hope you didn’t have anyone on board during that blow last night.”

  “Had her all safe and sound, thanks, in the lee. No harm done.”

  “She’d hardly fit here in Menemsha,” I said, aware that the marinas in Edgartown and Vineyard Haven would have had no problem docking a boat this size.

  “No, no. Over in Nantucket,” the mate shot back. “That’s her home.”

  “You guys actually sit it out on the water in this?”

  “Captain’s orders,” he said, looking over at the steward and laughing.

  “Must have been rough.”

  “They don’t make enough Dramamine to get you through one of these. And we were damn well sheltered.”

  Cassie was filling the fuel tanks and surveying the length of the yacht with great admiration.

  I laughed, too. “Bet the owner doesn’t hang out in the storm with you.”

  “Are you kidding? He wouldn’t leave this baby for a minute. Rode the whole thing through with us. Only his wife got a pass to stay onshore.”

  “Is that you, Alexandra? I would never have recognized you.”

  I was startled by the sound of Hoyt’s voice. Squinting and shielding my eyes from the sun, I raised my head and saw him in the cockpit on the flying bridge, one flight above the crew.

  “I was just trying to call you,” he said, waving the cell phone in his hand. “Thought seven A.M.was a respectable time to wake you up. We’re heading for the city and needed to gas up. Don’t know when the airport will reopen but thought you might want to hitch back with us.”

  “Way to go, Alex,” Cassie said. “Totally cool.”

  “No thanks, Graham. Cell phones don’t work in Menemsha.” This sleepy little village was a black hole in the world of cell communications. “There’s no tower.”

  “No tower, no power,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “How about the ride home?”

  “Thanks. I may stay on the island for a while,” I said, lying to him. I wasn’t about to spend another night in the house until the broken glass was replaced and the locks and alarm system were changed. But that didn’t mean I was ready to set out on the high seas with Graham Hoyt.

  “I bet you won’t say no to a hot breakfast. How about you, young lady? Want a tour?”

  Cassie had stepped out of her boots and climbed on board without hesitating for a moment. From over my shoulder I heard one of the guys on the bench urging me to follow her. “What are you waitin’ for, honey? Don’t see one of these big guys pull into town every day. You afraid they’s got Bluebeard hiding belowdeck or what?”

  I forced a smile and kicked off my boots, winking at the grizzled old-timers. “If they pull out with Cassie and me on board, tell Chip to get the navy after them, okay?”

  The men laughed but I wasn’t entirely kidding.

  Hoyt extended his hand to help me off the ladder, then turned to the steward. “Why don’t you tell the chef to set a table on the aft deck for three? Some scrambled eggs and bacon, a fresh pot of coffee, and some juice.”

  The knots in my stomach were turning somersaults. Perhaps it was because I had not really eaten yesterday, but also because I worried about where Graham Hoyt had been during the storm. What if his crew were covering for him? They had no reason to be setting up a false alibi, I reassured myself. They couldn’t possibly have thought that the bedraggled woman in the oversized flannel shirt and the Capri-length chinos was trying to cross-examine them.

  “So this is my little folly, Alex. Let me show you two around.”

  I followed Hoyt and Cassie through the entrance into the yacht’s main salon. The entire room was paneled in teakwood, with thick green leather sofas and wool sisal carpeting. Crystal wine goblets hung upside down over the wide bar, notched in place so they wouldn’t fly off and break in the fiercest of storms.

  “Come see the staterooms,” he said, leading us down the aft staircase. The master had a queen-sized bed and full bathroom, and th
e two smaller rooms were just as exquisitely appointed, in the softest shade of sea foam.

  “How big is she?” Cassie asked.

  “Ninety-eight feet. A Palmer Johnson. Cruises at twelve and a half knots, holds five thousand gallons of fuel.”

  Cassie was more interested in the specs than I was, but the thought of the upkeep was overwhelming. It had to cost more than a million dollars a year to keep this toy afloat, with its crew of four and all that went with it.

  Back on deck, I leaned over to check whether I could see how far below water the boat’s bottom went. “What does she draw?”

  “Six feet. We just make it in here.”

  I noticed a small motorboat tied up alongside us. A twenty-foot Boston Whaler. For most people, that would have been more than enough of a vessel.

  I looked at the gold lettering on the rear of the Pirate ‘s tender: Rebecca.

  I turned to Hoyt. “Daphne du Maurier?”

  “You mean Rebecca ? Is that what I named her for? You really see murder in everything, don’t you, Alex?” Hoyt shook his finger at me.

  “Happens to be one of my favorite novels.”

  “Yes, but my wife would never go out on the water with me, if that was the inspiration for her name. James Gordon Bennett-the first commodore of the yacht club-that’s what his boat was called. She’s named in his honor.”

  The steward came back to whisper to Hoyt that our breakfast was about to be served.

  “Is there another phone line? Other than the cell, I mean.”

  “Certainly. We’ve got satellite phones on board. Todd, will you show Ms. Cooper to the cockpit?”

  I wanted to talk to Mike Chapman. I wanted him to know I was on Hoyt’s yacht, and confirm his whereabouts last night. This might be the only working phone I would be near all day.

  I reached voice mail at his apartment and on his cell. I dialed Mercer Wallace. The captain was working on his route chart right next to me, so I explained where I was without telling the story of the previous night.

  “When are you coming back to the city?” Mercer asked.

  “Uh-I’m still not quite sure.” I wanted to tell him as soon as the airport was open and I could find some way to get to it, but I couldn’t trust the captain not to repeat that to Hoyt.

  “You alone there on the Titanic ?”

  “No, no, no. Got one of my local friends here with me, and we’re getting right off after breakfast. We won’t even leave the dock.”

  “Well, hurry home, Alex. I’m trying to make progress. Seems that it most likely was Mrs. Gatts’s brother-in-law who followed you down to the church last week. His supervisor says he signed out of court at five P.M, just up the street from you. Left the building in his uniform, without changing, which is not his usual pattern. Chief said he seemed in a hurry to go somewhere.” That explained the navy blue pants. “And he called in sick the next day-just didn’t come to work.”

  “Anybody keeping an eye on him?”

  “They read him the riot act. If we can prove something, they’ll suspend him.”

  “All circumstantial, but it’s a start. Anything else before I lose you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Found out yesterday that Tiffany Gatts has some other family ties that might interest you,” Mercer said.

  “Like who?”

  “Seems her boyfriend Kevin had good reason to know about Queenie Ransome and her collection of coins. Tiffany’s cousin is the one who let the cat out of the bag, about valuables being in Queenie’s apartment.”

  “I give up, Mercer. Who’s her cousin?”

  “Spike Logan. Know who I mean? The Harvard guy who lives up on the Vineyard.”

  I took another breath and thought about the intruder who had frightened me out of my home, into the wind and rain. Spike Logan lived up here. Where the hell was he during last night’s storm?

  35

  Graham Hoyt went down the ladder to the dock ahead of Cassie and me, helping each of us off as we followed.

  “When I stop by here next June, young lady,” he said to Cassie, “I expect you to take the afternoon off for some waterskiing with the crew.”

  She gushed with delight and ran back into the mini-market to buy a disposable camera and snap some shots of the Pirate, while I thanked Hoyt for breakfast.

  We shook hands and he held on to my left elbow, hesitating before he spoke. “You know, Jenna and I are spending the weekend with Dulles. Bringing him onto the boat, cruising up the Hudson and around New York Harbor to try to get him comfortable with us. Maybe, if you get back to town in time-I realize it’s only a ‘maybe’-but I’d like you to think about meeting us for lunch, to get a sense that Dulles is going to be okay with all this behind him.”

  The Hoyts were obviously intent on adopting the boy, and I was beginning to think it was hopeless for me to try to guess what would serve the child best in the long run.

  “Help him understand that all this-this bad stuff-lawyers, courts, cops-that it’s all behind him, Alex. Give him some closure. Give him back his childhood, his life. You represent the bridge between what’s past and what kind of future he can have.”

  “It’s a nice idea, but I’m not too optimistic we can end the emotional damage so quickly.” I looked away from Hoyt, knowing that the judge wouldn’t condone any further delays to dispose of the misdemeanor charges involving Tripping’s son, now that the rape case had been tossed. “I may not be able to ‘give’ him those things any more readily than you can,” I said, smiling at Hoyt, “but maybe I can return his baseball jacket. He’s entitled to that.”

  “Yankees, I hope? They’re the only thing in his life that provides pure joy. My wife already got some play-off tickets.”

  “Well, yes, he left his jacket at the hospital the night his father was arrested. We thought it might be his security blanket. Maybe that can be my peace offering, when I do see him.”

  Hoyt clasped his left hand on top of mine, shook again, and boarded the yacht. “Bet we beat you back to the city, Alex. Sure you don’t want to try the high seas?”

  “No thanks. Speak to you soon.”

  I trudged back to police headquarters through the mounds of damp sand. It was several hours until the island came to life again, as power was restored and the pavement cleared. When Chip Streeter got word that the Menemsha Crossroads had opened up, he offered to drive me home so that I could assess the damage and change my clothes.

  The sunny fall day had everyone out picking up the debris around their houses. Several utility poles were still down and there were branches scattered everywhere. We pulled off State Road into my driveway, and as we came over the rise, things didn’t look as bad as I had feared.

  I got out of the car and kneeled to examine the tread marks that the intruder had left in the mud. An expert could easily match the marks to a shoe brand, which was likely to be all too common to be significant.

  “Yup,” Streeter said, “the state troopers took photos and measurements, and some kind of cast of the prints. Dusted around inside, too.”

  This wasn’t the first time my home had been a crime scene. I knew that it wasn’t going to be pretty. We went in and looked over the mess that had been tracked through. Once again, I felt shocked and unsettled at the sight of my belongings in such disarray. There was still no electricity or water, so the cleanup would be a job for my caretaker, when he returned to the island.

  “Wanna see if anything’s missing?”

  “Sure,” I said, walking from room to room, checking the obvious places and opening drawers and closets. Nothing seemed out of place. In the bedroom, I looked into my sail bag and purse. “Missing some cash. About a hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “See? Probably just an ordinary breakin, somebody looking for a quick score.”

  There was no point telling him about Spike Logan. I’d let Mike and Mercer work that angle, and allow Streeter to keep thinking this was just a petty theft. The island was so small, such an insular community, that there was no way of
knowing who was connected to whom. In my book, taking the money was just a convenient way for my visitor to show me that he had been there, that he might come again.

  “I figured I’d wait for you to change and drop you at the airport.”

  “That’s too much trouble. I can get myself-”

  “I got to go down-island to Shirley’s Hardware to pick up some tools for repairs at the station. I’d rather not leave you here alone.”

  I was glad about that. “It will just take me a minute.” I closed the bedroom door, pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweater from my closet, and folded the borrowed chinos and shirt for Streeter to return.

  We drove to the airport, twisting our way around the assortment of storm-tossed things in the roadway. I thanked him when I got out of the car and joined the short line of impatient city folk waiting at the counter for word about air service to New York.

  It looked like a special direct flight would leave for La Guardia at 6 P.M.

  The day was a wash. My cell phone, uncharged for more than twenty-four hours, was dead. The telephone kiosks, which afforded no privacy, were in steady use by anxious travelers trying to find alternate ways to get to Providence, Boston, Hartford, and points west. I spun the paperback rack in the gift shop and found only the good books I had read in hardcover months earlier. There was a British thriller by a writer I’d never tried before, so I settled in a corner window seat and killed the time with crime fiction.

  Somewhere in the northeast corridor, the airline had come up with a DC-3 to lug us home. It rolled to a stop outside the terminal, looking as if it had just come over the hump from Burma in a World War II flick. We boarded quickly, climbing up the sloping aisle to get into our seats. The normally short flight took almost ninety minutes, and it was close to 8 P.M. when I walked out of the New York terminal to hail a taxi.

  Hot running water. I stripped down and turned on the shower full force. Mud was still caked between my toes and under each nail. I must have been a sight to all of the evening’s air travelers. My matted hair looked several shades darker than before the storm, and I scrubbed for minutes until I could even get a lather going.