Death in the Off-Season

by Francine Mathews

  This close to Rafe, she felt a rush of dread that had nothing to do with the dead man that had brought her onto his turf; she bit her lip and wished he would look at her. He studied the ground instead.

  She gave up and turned back to Will. He was walking between the two of them, slightly bent as he held firmly to the collar of a large, indiscriminate dog. He looked peaked and too old for his fifteen years, and something tugged at the back of her brain. She did not know the Starbuck family well—in fact, she knew Tess Starbuck only by sight—but there was something about the father’s death that she ought to remember.

  Will cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t have seen it if it weren’t for the mouse,” he said.

  Merry nodded encouragingly, not understanding him in the slight­est. “Let’s start before that. Why were you here at all, and so early?”

  “I’m supposed to work. That’s why the bog’s flooded. We’re wet-harvesting today.” At the prospect of the promised job, Will’s face brightened momentarily. “It was pretty foggy, you know, so I had to ride really slow. I almost missed the drive, because the gate was open, which it never is, and in the fog you couldn’t tell there was a road there, even.”

  Merry made a mental note to ask Rafe about the gate. “And so?”

  “There was this mouse on the driveway—it ran out in front of the bike, and I tried to stop and couldn’t. The gravel makes it hard with the brakes. Anyway, I wiped out.” He stopped.

  “And that’s when you saw the body?” Merry asked gently.

  Will’s head dropped to his chest, and he shrugged. “I didn’t know that’s what it was, right away,” he said. “I thought somebody’s T-shirt had got caught on a piece of driftwood, you know? In the fog, nothing looks like it should.”

  “Or maybe when you don’t expect a body to be there, your eyes tell you it’s something else,” Merry said. “You didn’t touch anything? Didn’t pick anything up?”

  “Nope.” Will was studying his running shoes as he walked. “And then Rafe came.”

  At the sound of his name, Rafe looked over Will’s head at Merry, a warning in his eyes. “Ney was howling,” he said carefully. “That’s something he never does. So I got there pretty quickly.” Merry nodded slightly. Rafe was protecting the kid.

  Rapid footsteps crunched along the gravel behind them, and Mason’s tall frame loomed suddenly out of the fog at Merry’s side. His tanned skin gleamed with moisture, part sweat and part condensation. He reached urgently for her elbow. “I need you to talk to the para­medic,” he said. It was a command, not a request.

  “What’s wrong, Mr, Mason?”

  “He won’t let me go with Rusty’s body. He wouldn’t even let me search his pockets.”

  “I’m afraid that’s police procedure,” she said, not unkindly, and waited for him to drop her arm. She had expected something like this. Next-of-kin rarely took a death well; and they all handled it differently, men being the most unpredictable.

  “Well then, change police procedure,” he said.

  Merry drew herself up to her full five feet ten. She still had to look up to him. “Mr. Mason,” she said, “you’re probably feeling grief and a bit of shock. Maybe even anger. I know I would in your place. I’m sure your brother meant a lot to you, and the idea that he’s been killed is pretty difficult to accept—”

  “I don’t need you to tell me what to feel,” Mason said, his anger in his voice. “I need you to talk to the paramedic.”

  Merry stopped short. His strong chin, jutting brow bones, and sweep of jet-black hair were attractive, certainly, and his gray eyes held intelligence, even when he was in a rage. But he was decidedly arrogant—an attitude she put down to off-island wealth, years of family authority, and the male desire to run things. It was hard to know whether he felt any sorrow. Probably that would come later. Now he was in a mood to take charge, as generations of Masons had done before him. She glanced over at Rafe and Will, the one looking wary, the other, confused; and knew she’d have to fight this one alone.

  “I’m afraid I can’t change police procedure, Mr. Mason, because the body is evidence,” she said firmly. “There will be an autopsy. A coro­ner’s report. We’ll probably have to send fluid and tissue samples to the state police crime lab in Boston. After a while, a couple of days at a minimum, we can release your brother to you for burial. We’ll do our best to speed the process along, but you’re going to have to live with some delay and some red tape.”

  “I don’t have to like it,” Peter said. “Rusty may be evidence to you, but he happens to be my brother.” He was furious, his lips compressed. “I want the name of your chief.”

  Merry felt the faintest finger of amusement tug at the corners of her mouth. “I guess that’d be John Folger,” she said. “He’ll be in the station in another hour or so. But I’ll save you the trouble, Mr. Mason. He’s a bigger fan of the book than I am.”

  “Folger? Is he—”

  “Any relation? Yeah. He’s my dad. Police work is kind of a family tradition on the island.” She turned and began to trudge up the drive, glancing at Mason from the corner of her eye to see how he was taking it. Momentarily checked, but not beaten. He’d want to run this investi­gation himself.

  They reached the saltbox’s geranium-colored door. The dog bolted out of Will’s grasp and into the house, bound for the kitchen with the boy in pursuit. Peter Mason stood back and waited for Merry to enter. She stepped inside the low-ceilinged en­trance hall. A smell peculiar to the island—pine, salt water, roses, the fragrance of the moors, and something else she could only describe as the odor of time—drifted up from the floor. The house reeked of fin­ished lives and the passage of years.

  Mason led them to the study at the back of the house and sank into an armchair. Rafe took up a leaning position by the door to the kitchen. Merry refused a seat and stood squarely in the middle of the sea-blue rug, rummaging in her work bag for her laptop and half-glasses. The intern, a Northeastern criminal justice student named Howie Seitz, stood a reluctant three paces behind her. Seitz was six feet four and his limbs were straining out of his regulation-blue uniform. He had abandoned his hat, and his tanned face under an unruly mop of dark curls managed to look bored and exultant at once. He had spent his summer internship on a bicycle in Siasconset, giving directions to day-trippers and making sure some hedge-fund manager’s drunk kid didn’t crash his sports car on the way to the beach. Now, in his final week, Howie had something to talk about.

  Merry abandoned her slicker, revealing khakis and a pale green crew-neck cotton sweater above the black rubber knee boots she still wore. She flipped her hair behind her ears and seemed not to notice when it slid just as quickly back down her cheekbone. An old boy­friend, in a burst of ill-advised fervor, had told her once that the soul of Medusa lived on in her hair. Her most striking feature—dark brows—had caused her endless grief in her younger years. She had tried to bleach them blonde in high school, and had suffered the horrors for a good six months. Those who did not know her well mistook her shyness for aloofness and thought her proud. It was one of the many miscalculations made about Meredith Folger.

  She set her bag on the floor next to the sofa, withdrew a laptop from its depths, and after a second decided to sit down. She was starting to feel the hunger of an all-nighter, like a crab clawing its way out of her stomach. She shut her eyes and said a quick prayer that she wouldn’t forget to ask anything important. Then she glanced around the study. Old maps in bird’s-eye-maple frames flanked the fireplace. A partner’s desk occupied one corner, while a comfortable sofa and a russet-colored leather chair were drawn up to a table with an inlaid chessboard. The chess­men were soldiers of some kind, and there was a game in progress. Books were everywhere. The room—comfortable, expensive, and en­tirely personal—was Peter Mason’s defense against the world, and she had invaded it with her officiousness and her questions. She felt light­headed
, and swallowed.

  As for Peter, even at rest in his chair, his body conveyed grace and power, qualities that Merry assumed were part of his genetic material. Masons had walked the world for centuries with just his brand of self-assurance and ownership; it was their birthright. His chin was resting on one palm, and he seemed to be gazing at nothing, his mind working furiously. Time to ask him some questions. She opened her laptop and turned it on.

  “Since no one recognized him, I take it your brother doesn’t live here, Mr. Mason?”

  He laughed suddenly, shortly, and looked at Merry. “No, my brother did not live here, Miss Folger.”

  Merry hesitated, then decided to press a point for authority’s sake. “I prefer Detective, Mr. Mason.”

  “Detective. I prefer Peter, but perhaps you have rules about calling victims by their first names.”

  “Victims, in my experience, are beyond being called anything,” Merry said. “I prefer to maintain a professional relationship with those involved in an investigation, if that’s what you mean.”

  Peter’s expression of bitter amusement widened. “So now I’m under investigation? That’s perfect. How like Rusty.” He rose and crossed to the bookcases that lined one wall, filled helter-skelter with old leather-bound editions and dog-eared paperbacks, and reached for a bottle of Glenfiddich doing duty as a bookend.

  “I’m sorry, Detective Folger. I’m not being very helpful, and now I’m drinking in the morning.” The door next to Rafe opened, and Rebecca, the housekeeper, entered on a tide of warm air and comfort. She carried a tin tray with a coffeepot, five mugs, and a basket of cranberry bread. Will followed with the cream and sugar. Re­becca pointedly ignored Merry and Howie Seitz as she set the tray on the low table in front of the fireplace.

  Peter downed the scotch, neat, and sighed as the liquor hit his empty stomach. “Thanks, Rebecca,” he said.

  Rebecca shook her closely cropped gray head disapprovingly at the drink, but, showing unusual self-restraint, said nothing and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Peter crossed to his chair and sat down again, eyes alert, face in control.

  “When did you get up this morning, Mr. Mason?” Merry asked.

  “About five-thirty.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I didn’t check the clock, if that’s what you’re asking. I awoke about five—which I know from long experience of what five o’clock feels like—and couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay in bed awhile and then decided to go for a run.”

  “Do you often run at that hour?”

  “I always run at that hour. The afternoons are for biking or swim­ming. I’m training for a triathlon.”

  Merry suppressed the impulse to ask him when he got any work done, and shot a glance at Rafe. The force behind the farm, obviously. “Did anyone see you leave?”

  “Rebecca was in the kitchen. I said hello to her as I left.”

  “Did you call to her, or did she actually see you?”

  “Why does it matter?” he said irritably.

  Merry didn’t answer.

  “I left by the kitchen door. I assume Rebecca heard the door slam. She was standing with her back to me, at the kitchen sink.”

  “So you left the house in the direction of the moors,” Merry said. “You didn’t come around the house and take the drive? Perhaps leav­ing the gate open as you ran?”

  “No. If I’d wanted to go in the direction of the drive, I’d have used the front door. I’m sorry I didn’t make it easy for you and discover the body myself, but I’m a creature of habit. I run through the moors.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “First north, toward the sea, and then down the Polpis Road toward town, and then back up the Milestone Road bike path to the Altar Rock turnoff. I was just beyond there when you roared past me in your SUV.”

  He’d done close to eleven miles in about seventy minutes. “Did you see anyone while you were running?”

  “No. It wasn’t a morning conducive to sightseeing. More to break­fast in bed, I imagine.”

  “Mr. da Silva,” Merry said, dismissing Peter and turning to Rafe, “could you describe your movements this morning for me?”

  Rafe’s lips twitched at the use of Mr. da Silva. “I got up about the same time, five-thirty,” he said, “and saw to the sheep.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I got the dog and we herded them up off the moors and drove ’em in to feed. Came in for breakfast after. That’d be about six.”

  “And did anyone see you?”

  Rafe gave the ghost of a smile. “Herding’s nothing to get up for, unless you own the sheep,” he said.

  “And then?”

  “I went back to the barn to check out the harvesting gear. That was when Ney started terrorizing the neighborhood. I ran up the drive­way and—saw Will.”

  “When would that be?”

  “Six forty-five, thereabouts.”

  “What did you do at that point?”

  Rafe looked uncomfortably at Peter, and then at the floor. “We wanted to see if it was someone we knew, so I lifted the head a bit outta the water, just enough to check, and then we left every­thing and came back to the house.”

  Peter’s gaze was riveted on Rafe. “Who found the body?” he said.

  “I did, Peter.” Will’s voice was very small and seemed to come from a farther distance than his cross-legged position in front of the coffee tray.

  “Oh, Will,” Peter said, turning to the boy. “Not you.” He paused, looking at Will’s white, stiff face.

  Will flinched. “Like it matters who found him, Pete. I don’t care.” He stopped suddenly, and the set lines of his face crumpled and red­dened. “I mean, I’m—I feel really awful about your brother, Pete, I do. I’m really sorry.”

  “I know, Will. It’s all right.” Peter held the boy’s eyes, then glanced at Merry, who was watching, and waiting. She adjusted her half-glasses on the end of her nose.

  “If you could give me your brother’s contact information, Mr. Mason—”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Detective. Rusty left the country ten years ago, and we fell out of touch. I think he was living in Brazil at one point, but I can’t even be sure of that.”

  “Brazil?” She was momentarily startled, and showed it. “What was he doing in Brazil?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Peter said.

  Rafe drew in his breath sharply, and Merry glanced at him. He thinks Mason is deliberately stonewalling, she thought. She turned back to Peter.

  “Had he contacted you recently?”

  “No.”

  “How about anyone else in the family? Who else is there, by the way?”

  “My mother lives in Hobe Sound, Florida. I have a sister—Georgiana Whitney—who lives in Greenwich, Connecticut.”

  “And they said nothing about your brother coming home?”

  “I think if either of them had heard from Rusty, I’d know about it. Particularly if he had it in his head to come here.” Peter was staring at the floor again, his left leg crossed on his right knee, one hand drumming the tanned skin of his thigh. As if suddenly con­scious of his fingers, he stopped the staccato and reached for a mug. “How do you take your coffee, Detective? Black or white?”

  “White, thank you. No sugar. In other words, all of this is a surprise.”

  “Yes.” He poured the coffee very carefully.

  “Not just your brother’s death, but the fact that he was here at all,” she persisted.

  “Right. In fact, I would go so far as to say that any news of Rusty, alive or dead, would come as an unpleasant shock.” He handed her the mug.

  An appalling thought entered Merry’s mind as she took her first sip: Peter Mason wasn’t sorry his brother was dead. In fact, the very sight of his brother seemed to have ma
de him furious. It was in­comprehensible. The body that had filled her with the abrupt finality of death had only enraged him.

  “Mr. Mason,” she began, “how well did you get along with your brother?”

  “I can’t see that that has anything to do with this, Detective Folger.”

  “Bad blood between brothers was good enough for Cain,” she said mildly. Mason did not reply, which was an answer in itself. She glanced at Rafe, whose face was carefully wiped clean of all expression. Either he knows more about this than he’s telling, or he’s turning it over in his mind, she thought. She would have to talk to him later, alone.

  “I have to ask you, Mr. Mason, whether you killed your brother.”

  Peter closed his eyes. “It’s the obvious question, isn’t it? No, Detective, I did not.”

  “Even without meaning to? By accident, or on the spur of the mo­ment?”

  “If I had, would I have left him there in the ditch for anybody to find? Give me some credit for intelligence, please!”

  “I’ve tried to do that. I’d ask for the same in return,” Merry said, exasperated. “It’s pretty hard to believe that your brother’s been gone for ten years, and you didn’t know he was going to show up the night he got murdered. It looks, as we’d say down at the station, like an implaus­ible explanation.”

  Peter said nothing, his face darkening.

  Merry flipped through her laptop as though searching for Rusty’s life somewhere among its files. She waited, guessing Peter Mason would offer nothing further.

  “Did anyone here at the farm know your brother?”

  He picked up his coffee cup. “I think we’ve established that Rafe and Will never knew him,” he said. “Rebecca’s in the kitchen. You’re welcome to talk to her on your way out. But to my knowledge she’s never seen Rusty. She’s only worked here since I moved back to Nantucket permanently, ten years ago. Rusty was here every summer as a child, of course, as I was. But as an adult he lived in Manhattan and rarely visited the island.” He took a deep draft of coffee, wincing slightly as it burned its way down his throat. “Tell me something, Detective, if you’re allowed to. How did he die?”