Vineyard Blues

by Philip R. Craig

“You know about that? Yeah. They have a daughter. Kid’s in college.”

  Not anymore. “What else do you have?”

  He had a synopsis of Corrie’s professional life, which included a good deal of time in Philadelphia a generation ago.

  When he was through, I asked him for any family addresses he might have. He didn’t have any, but he had the names of Corrie’s wife and children. I wrote them down and asked him to mail the rest of his information to me.

  “Hell, I’ll just fax it. Oh, no, I won’t. You, naturally, don’t have a fax machine. Get with it, J.W.! This is the twentieth century you’re living in, for God’s sake. Get yourself into the electronic age! Stop sending messages by smoke signals!”

  “You can fax it, if that’ll make you happy.” I gave him the number of a place in Edgartown where fax people can practice their odd communication habits.

  “Don’t spend all of your time on this business,” he said. “Get to work on that addition. Brady and I are serious about fishing in the derby this year, and we’ll need that room your kids are using now!”

  “I may have Brady down, but I’m not sure about you,” I said.

  He hung up and I dialed directory assistance. Hattie Appleyard lived on a farm just outside of Port Gibson, Mississippi. The operator gave me her number. I dialed again and got the number for Dr. Emily Carlyle in Philadelphia. I called the Edgartown police station and left both numbers and the names that went with them for the chief to pass on to the Dingses.

  I’d let the professionals ask Corrie’s daughter and his aging wife for the name of his dentist or for other information that might help them identify the body found in the burned house. I wasn’t up to that sad task, however much I’d be interested in what they learned. I had a job that was closer at hand. I wasn’t sure that it would work out, but it was worth a try.

  Zee, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around her hair, came into view. Venus without the shell. My rarely well-behaved hormones began to stir once again. Had someone slipped Viagra into my beer?

  “What’s up?” she asked. “Oh, I see.”

  “I was going to drive to Oak Bluffs,” I said. “But maybe I’ll wait until later.” I took a step toward her.

  Just then, however, Joshua came into the room, rubbing his eyes. He was used to seeing naked parents, but his appearance curtailed my plan. He had apparently overheard my reference to Oak Bluffs.

  “Can I go with you, Pa?”

  Zee laughed and went into the bedroom.

  “Sure you can,” I said to Josh. “Just let me get into some clothes.” I followed Zee.

  “What are your Oak Bluffs plans?” asked Zee, as we slid into shorts and shirts.

  “I thought I’d go see Cousin Henry Bayles.”

  Her eyes widened. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea you ever had,” she said, frowning.

  “I’m not sure, either,” I said, “but I’m going. I don’t think Cousin Henry will loose his dogs of war on me as long as I don’t get sassy.”

  “Maybe you should leave Joshua at home.”

  “I think he’ll be okay.”

  She started to say something logical, but settled for another frown. Mothers have a tough time in this world.

  Five minutes later, Joshua and I were on our way.

  — 25 —

  The first time I ever saw Cousin Henry Bayles was about the same time I first met Corrie Appleyard, only I met Corrie in Somerville, and saw Cousin Henry on the Vineyard. I was a kid, and my father and I were walking down Circuit Avenue in Oak Bluffs. My father, who from time to time tried to teach me useful lessons about life, pointed out the little brown man to illustrate the dangers of starting fights with people you didn’t know. Cousin Henry was a scrawny, aging guy who looked like the wind could blow him away, but according to my father he was probably the most dangerous man I’d ever meet, being the prime suspect in the violent deaths of a lot of very big, very tough guys during the Philadelphia black gang wars before he had abandoned his life as crime boss there and retired quietly to Oak Bluffs. Later, when I worked on the Boston PD, old-timers on the force had told similar harrowing tales about Cousin Henry, whom they included in the almost mythical tradition of Capone, Bonnie and Clyde, and other killers held in high esteem by Americans who never had to deal with them in real life.

  I had briefly met Cousin Henry and his wife after my own retirement to the Vineyard years later, but only because he was kin to the very proper and successful and wealthy Crandels, whose family had been coming to Oak Bluffs for a hundred years, and for whom I worked as caretaker of their big East Chop house during the off season. Cousin Henry had not encouraged me to maintain a relationship with him, and I could understand that, since he was not only picky about his friends, but he had damaged a lot of people in his earlier life, and had grown old only by being very careful about possibly vengeful acquaintances and visitors.

  Now, though, I wanted to see him again.

  He and the ageless little woman who was his wife lived in a modest house down by Brush Pond, on the banks of the Lagoon. The house was innocent-looking but well situated for defense. Cousin Henry had water on three sides of his property, so you could only reach him over land by approaching the front of his house, or by boat from the Lagoon, where he had a small floating dock reaching out from his beach. There was a porch overlooking the dock where a motorboat was tied all year long, just in case Henry felt the need to go to sea. All things considered, it would be very hard for any visitor to see Cousin Henry before he saw the visitor.

  I wanted him to see me so he wouldn’t be unduly nervous, so I drove slowly into his front yard, parked, got out with Joshua, and stood there for a while. After I thought I saw a white curtain move in a window, I walked with Joshua up to the door and knocked.

  After a bit, the door opened halfway and Henry’s wife stood there, looking up at me. She wore what women used to call, and maybe still do call, a housedress. The dress was a print of small flowers on a gray background, and its white collar was buttoned to her stringy neck. A stringy-looking hand held the collar of a very large, unfriendly-looking dog.

  “Yes?”

  I told her who I was and that I wanted to see her husband.

  She seemed to give that notion some thought, then shook her head. “He’s not available.”

  “Tell him it’s a family matter.”

  “He’s still not available.” She began to shut the door.

  I shot my last wad. “Tell him it’s about Millicent Dowling.”

  The door stopped shutting and her small, dark eyes flicked back up at mine. “Who?”

  I thought I saw a glimmer of emotion in those ebony eyes. I calculated generations. “Millicent is a friend of Linda Carlyle. Linda’s grandfather, Corrie Appleyard, is missing and I want to talk to Millicent about it.”

  “You’ve come to the wrong place,” she said, and shut the door.

  As she did, I said, “Your granddaughter may be in trouble.” It was a guess, but I had confidence in it because of the pattern of relationships I’d heard about.

  The closed door looked me in the face.

  Joshua, feeling my tension, took my hand.

  I waited. Nothing happened.

  So much for that plan. I was leading Joshua back toward the car when a voice came from behind me.

  “You’re Jackson,” it said.

  I turned and faced Cousin Henry. He looked not greatly different from when I’d first seen him decades before.

  “That’s right. J. W. Jackson. This is my son, Joshua.”

  “Bring the boy here.”

  I did that, and when I got to Cousin Henry, I said, “This is Mr. Bayles, Joshua.”

  Joshua put out his hand, and Cousin Henry took it. “How do you do?” said Joshua.

  “Fine, just fine,” said Cousin Henry, “and how are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” said Joshua.

  Cousin Henry released Joshua’s hand and put his own toward me. I took it.
<
br />   “You helped out Julie Crandel a while back,” he said.

  “I look after Stanley and Betsy’s place when they’re gone.”

  He waved at the porch overlooking the Lagoon. “We’ll sit. My wife is bringing lemonade.” We stepped up onto the porch and sat in rocking chairs set below a window opened to the wind off the water. “Maybe the boy would like to go down and look at the boat,” said Cousin Henry.

  Josh was a fool for boats. “Can I, Pa?”

  “Sure. Just don’t fall in the water.”

  Joshua went down the path that led to the dock.

  “Now,” said Cousin Henry, “what’s this about Corrie and my granddaughter?”

  “So she is your granddaughter. I thought so, but I wasn’t sure.” I told him how Adam Washington had gotten his boxes mixed up with his bales.

  “A container confusion.” Cousin Henry smiled. Then his smile went away. “What’s your interest in Millicent and Corrie?”

  I told him about my father and Corrie’s friendship, and about the fires and my conversations with Peg Sharp, Adam Washington, and the Krane brothers, and about the job I’d taken with Ben Krane.

  “They found a body in the last house that burned,” I said. “That could make it a homicide case, not just arson.”

  Cousin Henry’s wife appeared with a tray holding three glasses of iced lemonade, put the tray on a table between us, and disappeared.

  “Do you know who died?” asked Cousin Henry.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I think it was Corrie. They found his satchel beside the body, and it had some new pennies in it. Corrie did some magic tricks with new pennies when he was at my place.”

  “What’s this got to do with Millicent?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’d like to talk with her before the police and the arson investigators and insurance people do.”

  “Why should any of you want to talk with her?” asked Cousin Henry, taking a sip of lemonade.

  I tried my own glass. Delish. There’s nothing like cold lemonade on a hot summer day. On the dock, Joshua was looking down at the motorboat tied alongside. It was a bigger and better-looking boat than my little Seagull-powered dinghy.

  “Because she was missing the nights when the last two houses burned,” I said, “and the moped she’d borrowed from Adam Washington was found at the site of the second fire.”

  “What is the significance of that?”

  “She borrowed Adam Washington’s moped and told him that she was going to visit you. The moped was hard to start. She’d had trouble with it before. She told Adam she was going to visit you, but it looks like she actually rode the moped to the two houses that burned, then, at the last house, she couldn’t get it started when she wanted to leave. If I were a cop, I’d want to talk with her about what she was doing there.”

  “But you’re not a cop.”

  “I’m a friend of Corrie’s. I’d like to know what happened to him.”

  Cousin Henry pursed his lips and looked at the dock, where Joshua was now giving thought to trying to get down into the boat.

  “Do you mind if he goes aboard?” I asked.

  Cousin Henry shook his head. “No, I don’t mind. Are you suggesting that Millicent had something to do with the death of the person found after that fire? If so, and if that is Corrie’s body, you are quite wrong. She’s known Corrie Appleyard all of her life. She’d never harm him.” He drank some more lemonade. “On the other hand, Ben Krane deservedly has many enemies, and any one of them may have set fire to his houses. That person would not have shared Millicent’s affection for Corrie. Besides,” he added, “if it comes to that, my wife and I will testify that Millicent was here with us when both of those fires started.”

  Joshua was squatting on the dock, wondering if he dared a leap down into the boat. I wondered, too, and got mentally ready for a fast run in case he misjudged and landed in the water instead.

  “You’re right about Krane having enemies and deserving them,” I said, “but Millicent hasn’t been seen since the last fire, and it may not be too long before people with badges start looking for her. I’d like to talk with her first, so I came here.”

  “I don’t believe you can get the search warrant you’d need to look for her.”

  “I don’t plan to try, but somebody official might.”

  Cousin Henry and I both watched Joshua jump down onto the deck of the boat and sprawl there. He was on his feet almost immediately, and looked back at the house. I waved. He waved back and then climbed down into the cockpit.

  “As you know,” said Cousin Henry, “I belong to a closeknit family. We take care of our own and are unhappy when others interfere with our lives.”

  “I do know that. I feel the same way about my family. But I am set on finding out what happened to Corrie Appleyard, and I think your granddaughter may know something about that.”

  “You mentioned that you’re working for Ben Krane. That would seem to put you and me on opposing sides in this matter.”

  “Ben Krane wants me to find out who’s torching his houses. If I find out, I may tell him and I may not, because if I’m right about his role in this whole matter, he probably deserves what’s happened to him. But I don’t feel that way about Corrie Appleyard. If he was murdered or died in that last fire, I want to know all about what happened and who else was involved. If that puts us on opposing sides, so be it.”

  His face showed no expression at all. “I will tell you one last time that my granddaughter would never harm Corrie Appleyard.”

  “I believe you. But I also believe Millicent was there when that last house burned, and I’d like to talk with her.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. Jackson. I believe your boy is too small to climb back on the dock by himself. Perhaps you should give him a hand.”

  I emptied my glass, got up, and walked down to where Joshua was discovering that he was, indeed, too short to get back up on the dock. He reached up with his hands.

  “Help, Pa.”

  I knelt and lifted him up beside me.

  “Thanks, Pa.”

  “Nice boat, eh?”

  He nodded, obviously impressed. We walked back to the house. Cousin Henry stood up as we got to the porch. “If you happen to see your granddaughter, Mr. Bayles, tell her I came by to talk to her.”

  “If I do, I will.”

  “And tell her that the authorities may come looking for her. They probably won’t be long in learning what people have already told me, and they’ll want to talk with her.”

  “You wouldn’t be thinking of passing your information on to them yourself, would you?”

  “No. At least not the part about Millicent.” I put out my hand. “Well, good-bye, Mr. Bayles.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Jackson.” Cousin Henry shook my big hand with his small, bony one, then put the hand down and took Joshua’s. “Good-bye, young man.”

  “Good-bye,” said Joshua. “You have a better motorboat than we do.”

  “I’m sure yours is fine.”

  “We have a sailboat, too.”

  “I’ve never learned to sail, I’m afraid.”

  “My pa could teach you.”

  Cousin Henry’s mouth twitched as a smile whipped across it and was gone. “I’m sure he could.”

  The sound of a closing door came from the front of the house, and a pretty young woman came onto the porch. Her skin was a golden brown, and her hair was black and wavy.

  “I’m Millicent Dowling,” she said. “I’ve been listening to you through the window.”

  I glanced down at her grandfather. There was a wry expression on his face.

  “You’re just like me, Millicent,” he said. “You never do a thing you’re told.”

  “I know. But after hearing what you both said, I decided to ignore your advice and come out and join the conversation.” She gave Cousin Henry a kiss. She was inches taller than he, and it landed on his forehead.

  Then she looked at me. “I’ll tal
k to you, Mr. Jackson. Where should we start?”

  “At the beginning, if you know where that is.”

  “I know where it began for me.”

  “Then start there.”

  — 26 —

  We sat around the table on the porch, and Joshua sipped lemonade while the rest of us talked.

  “First,” said Millicent Dowling, “I want you to know that Corrie Appleyard is the man they found in the house. He didn’t die in the fire, he died before it started. I think it was a heart attack.”

  I remembered the look of illness I’d seen in his face and the pills he was taking.

  “I thought it was probably him,” I said. “I’m glad he didn’t die because of the fire.”

  “So am I, I—”

  “Start from the beginning,” said her grandfather.

  I thought it an interesting interruption.

  “All right,” said Millicent. She had clearly been thinking about what she was going to say, because she didn’t hesitate. “For me, it started a year ago. The four of us, Adam and I and Perry and Linda, came here to work for the summer. We were in college together, and when we discovered that all of us but Perry had grandparents who had been friends years before, it seemed almost like fate had thrown us together.” She glanced at Cousin Henry, and as she did, I could see a hint of his bone structure in her face, and had the sense that something of his character was in her, too.

  She went on. “We came down and rented a house.” Her eyes hardened. “Ben Krane owned it, and he wanted a lot of money, but we figured that the four of us could swing it and probably save some money, too. We got jobs and probably everything would have been fine except Linda and Perry had a fight.” She looked at me. “You know about that.”

  “I was told it happened. I wasn’t told why.”

  “It started out just being a spat about Perry thinking Linda was being too sensitive about being black in lily-white Edgartown, and Linda thinking that Perry wasn’t being sensitive enough, but one thing led to another until there was an explosion and Linda wasn’t speaking to Perry.

  “And just then who should show up, tall, lean, handsome, rich, and white as Moby Dick, but Ben Krane? And who should go off with him, just to teach Perry a lesson, but my friend Linda?”