Death in the Off-Season

by Francine Mathews

  Rafe waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he motioned to the chair. “Have a seat,” he said, and pulled out the desk chair for himself. He straddled it backward, arms folded along the top rail, and waited again. Rafe was accustomed to silence, and it did not compel him to speech. He’d learned long ago that if you didn’t rush to fill a gap, people were likely to fill it for you.

  “How long have you been here, Rafe?” Merry asked, with effort.

  “Bit over five years.”

  “It doesn’t seem that long.” Since we both left New Bedford, she meant, but didn’t say.

  “Time goes.”

  Merry nodded, and looked around the room again. It looked as though no one really lived there, much less for five years. She glanced back at Rafe, hugging his chair like a safety barrier. It had been months—maybe a year and a half—since she’d had a reason to say more to him than hello. With a sense of shock she saw that he looked older than she remembered. She did a quick calculation and realized Rafe was thirty-nine, Billy’s age if he’d lived. His body was still fit and powerful, his perpetually copper face and deep brown eyes as controlled and calm as ever, but lines of weariness ran from the corners of his mouth to his nose, and the mink-brown hair was shot with gray. It seemed inconceivable to her that she had touched that hair once, that he had cried in her arms like a child. Since New Bedford he’d opened a steadily widening distance between them.

  Merry realized he was aware of her appraisal, and suddenly self-conscious, she looked away from him. “It’s really good to see you. I’m sorry it takes a murder to get me out here.”

  Rafe didn’t answer. He reached for the beer bottle and took a long drink. “What can I do for you, Detective Folger?”

  As if they were strangers. “You could talk to me like a friend, for starters,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Let’s just say it’s been a long day, and the morning comes early. Whatever you need, let’s get it over with.”

  Merry looked down at her hands, which were tightly clenched, and forced herself to loosen her fingers. “Tell me what you think happened here.”

  “I think Peter’s brother bought it last night. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re being hostile for no reason,” she retorted, “and if your boss ends up dead, too, one of these days, I’m going to have to ask some tougher questions.”

  Rafe’s face darkened. He set down the bottle with a quiet clink that somehow managed to sound ominous. “So ask ’em now,” he said.

  Her throat tightened. This meeting wasn’t going at all the way she’d hoped. “What do you know about Mason’s life? Any reason somebody’d want to kill him?”

  “No.”

  “That’s not good enough, Rafe.”

  “Maybe not, but it happens to be the truth. I’ve watched the guy for five years. He’s got no personal life. No women. He’s not growing con­trolled substances down on the farm. He’s a nice guy trying to make a living out of Ocean Spray.”

  “Know anything about his brother?”

  “Didn’t even know he had one.”

  “Has Mason seemed like himself lately?”

  “Yep. He works out, sees a few friends, runs the farm. Plays a lot of chess, listens to his music. He keeps to himself.”

  It was remarkable, Merry thought, that someone you had once loved could become a complete stranger you no longer knew how to talk to. She shoved her hair behind her ears and tried again.

  “No weird phone calls? Emails? Nothing out of the ordinary? No sign or code from his brother telling him he was due in town?”

  “They teach you espionage and witchcraft at the police academy, too?”

  “Answer the question, Rafe.”

  “No. Not so’s I noticed.”

  He’s protecting Peter Mason, Merry thought, and he’s afraid of me. What an extraordinary thing. She’d have to keep forcing him to talk to her. “Do you like the guy?”

  For the first time, Rafe dropped his gaze, and his face became care­fully expressionless. “Yeah, I like him. He’s a good boss and a good friend. Why do you think I’m so worried?” He stood up and started to pace around the loft. “I’m pissed as hell that I didn’t hear something last night. That could’ve been Pete out in the bog, you know that, Merry? And I heard nothing.”

  “Can’t take care of everybody, Rafe,” Merry said gently.

  He stopped in his tracks and looked at her, his dark eyes shadowed. “Yeah, well, it’d make a change from everybody taking care of me,” he said. “But I’ll be ready tonight.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning if the clown comes back, he’ll regret it.” He pointed to a Browning nine-millimeter that stood on a gun rack next to a twelve-gauge shotgun.

  “I didn’t know you had an arsenal.”

  “They’re Pete’s. He wants them stored in the barn, not the house.”

  “So you can’t think of who’d want to kill him, or why, but you think Peter was the target just the same.”

  “Nothing else makes sense,” he said.

  Merry shifted in her chair. “Unless he killed his brother.”

  Rafe gave a short bark of laughter. “Not a chance.”

  Merry leaned forward. “Mason seems to be the only guy in town—besides my grandfather—who remembered Rusty existed. And he isn’t hiding the fact he couldn’t stand him.”

  Rafe ran his left hand over his stubble. “There’s something there, something with the brother. I could see it today. The man’s got a grudge. He won’t talk about it, Merry, and it bugs me.”

  “You’re afraid Peter did it,” she said.

  “Maybe I am. Aw, shit, listen to me—he’s the last guy to get violent.”

  “Really? Would either you or Rebecca know if he left the house in the middle of the night?”

  Rafe studied his hands.

  “Rafe.”

  “I’d hear a car, wouldn’t I?”

  “Not if he met Rusty somewhere on foot—a prearranged spot, fixed in a text you never saw or a voicemail you didn’t hear.”

  “Rusty was killed on the road, walking toward the gate,” Rafe said.

  “Maybe Peter offered him a room at the house, and insisted on driving because of the fog and the strangeness of the moors. And when they got to the gate, Rusty got out to open it, as any passenger would. Something inside Peter snaps—whatever it is he’s been holding on to for so long. Maybe Peter hits the gas.”

  Rafe sat silently for a minute, then shook his head. “If Peter wanted to kill him, why would he wait until he got home to do it, and then leave the body in his front yard? And where did he leave Rusty’s car? Strangerfield has checked all of ours and they’re clean. You’re working overtime, Girlscout.”

  It was a name from childhood Merry had almost forgotten. The memory of her brother washed over her in a sweet, painful rush. “These friends,” she said. “When he sees people, who does he see?”

  “A few islanders, some off.” Rafe was being careful again. “Guy named Sky Tate-Jackson and his girlfriend. She’s part foreign, makes clothes. Has a shop in town.”

  “Mayling Stern,” Merry said. Rafe nodded.

  “Then there’s Lucy Jacoby, the English teacher at the high school.”

  “How’s he know her?”

  Rafe shrugged. “And the Starbucks, of course. He was a friend of Tess and Dan’s first and got to know Will when Dan passed away. He’s been good for the kid.”

  “Like you’ve been good for the widow.”

  Rafe’s head came up and his eyes narrowed. “You watching what I do, Meredith Folger? You got a squad car following me?”

  “No. I just checked your alibi for Sunday night. Dod Nelson spent Labor Day weekend on the Cape. You said he drove you home. But you were coming from the Green­gage. W
eren’t you?”

  Rafe sighed.

  “Next time, think before you lie,” Merry suggested. “You spent most of Sunday night with Tess Starbuck, I’d guess. You just didn’t want to say so in front of her kid and your boss.” She waited, but he did not reply. “You couldn’t have stopped Rusty Mason’s murder, because you weren’t even here.”

  “Man, I am so sick of being tailed by police,” Rafe said. His voice was low and taut with contained anger. “I’m perpetually guilty until proven innocent. God knows my dad thinks so. And somehow you’re always around when things go south, Merry. Like a bad luck charm.”

  “Right. This is my fault,” she said tiredly and turned to go. “Don’t hold out on me again when there’s a murder involved.”

  “I’ll do as I goddamn please,” he said. “You’re not my parole officer or my grandma. And you’re wasting your time checking up on me, Meredith. I had no reason to kill the guy.”

  “If the body had a knife wound, maybe I’d check harder,” Merry shot back, and then stopped, horrified. “Rafe, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” she said.

  His face was expressionless. He seemed not to have heard her. He moved almost indifferently to his desk and rifled through the feed orders and wool counts. “Yeah,” he said, “but part of you will always think it, Meredith. And whenever I see you, I’m back in a holding pen in New Bed. So just get out of my house, will you?”

  Chapter 11

  Merry stumbled in the darkened yard as she made her way from the barn to the gravel drive, and the sharp stab of pain unleashed the obscenities she’d barely held back in Rafe’s presence. “You’re such a fucking idiot, Merry Folger,” she muttered furiously as she massaged her turned ankle. She had reminded Rafe of something he’d never done and a shame he couldn’t erase. He didn’t miss her, didn’t want her, and didn’t need her. He just wanted to be left alone.

  She looked up, searching for her bearings. The night was moonless, the fog still holding, and the yard had no spotlights.

  A dog gave voice suddenly close at hand. A dark, moving shape hurtled around the corner of the house and shot directly toward her. She stopped short, reaching for the service pistol she carried but had never had to use, her heart beating fast with fear.

  “Ney!” A man’s voice called through the darkness, followed by a whistle. The dog slid to a halt just in front of Merry, jaws snapping and ears back, holding her until his master approached. She froze. A man’s hand came down over the dog’s collar. Ney whined, sat, and turned his nose up to Peter Mason.

  “The freak show is closed and you’re tres­passing,” he said, not recognizing her in the darkness. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave the property.”

  “That’s some dog, Mr. Mason,” she said. “How come he didn’t catch a killer last night?”

  “He probably would have, Detective,” Peter said, “if I didn’t keep him inside. I was just taking him over to Rafe’s. The crowds have been driving him nuts, so I locked him in the kitchen all afternoon. He’s a little jumpy. Thank God that cop at the end of the drive finally cleared them out.” He paused. “Wait here a minute and I’ll be right back.”

  He walked off in the direction of the barn, Ney moving with him like a shadow against his leg. Merry breathed deeply and closed her eyes. The last thing she wanted now was an interview with Peter Mason, but his requests had a curious way of sounding like commands, and she didn’t have the energy to fight him. She heard the barn door open, and, after a pause, squeak shut. She waited for the light footsteps through the long grass to reach her and then turned.

  “Let’s go inside,” Mason said.

  He led her around to the back kitchen door. A single light over the sink gave it a deserted feeling. Rebecca had left pots and a coffee cup to drain in the dish rack. As Merry passed it, the dishwasher cycle kicked into rinse with a roar. The sound was vaguely comforting.

  She followed Mason into his study and came to a halt in front of the fireplace, where driftwood was burning brightly.

  “It’s early in the season, I know, but the fog cuts through you,” he said. “The fire’s half for mental comfort.”

  She held out her hands to the blaze.

  “Can I get you a drink? Or tea?”

  Merry glanced over her shoulder. “Tea would be great.”

  “The cognac’s on the shelf,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Across the island, in Siasconset, Mayling Stern stood by her studio’s wide window. Foghorns were booming over the night sea from the international shipping lanes to the southeast. Off to her left, up the beach, Sankaty Light sliced through the dark, but its reach was truncated by fog, its passage illuminating nothing but a swirling cloud. With one hand she drew her sweater closer around her slender body and with the other closed the vertical blinds against the night. “I hate this island in bad weather,” she said. “It feels as though all the lost souls in the world have converged in the air above us, and are waiting.”

  “For what?” Sky asked.

  “For Rusty to join them, perhaps.” She glanced at Sky. Sitting in the red leather chair, he was backlit by the glow of her drafting-table spotlight, and she could not read his features. It occurred to her that he wanted it that way. He had turned off the overhead lamps when he entered the room.

  “The first and last sign of an off-islander,” he said. “Arrive with the sun, leave with the fog.”

  She had willed him to reach for her, and instead, he offered her scorn. She waited.

  “Mayling,” he said, “Did Peter tell you how Rusty died?”

  She shook her head. “He was angry when I didn’t ask.”

  “He was run down by a car, then dragged to the bog unconscious and left to drown.”

  Mayling folded her arms protectively across her chest.

  “Don’t drive the Mercedes,” Sky said evenly. “Keep it in the garage. We’ll get it fixed later, after all this has blown over.”

  Mayling searched for his eyes in the gloom, gave up, and turned to the door. “Take me home to New York, Schuyler,” she said. “I can’t bear to be here alone.”

  “Rafe tells me you two go back a long way,” Peter said delicately as he handed Merry the tea.

  “I’m surprised he remembers. Most of the time he treats me like Summer People.”

  “I see.” Peter settled back in his chair and reached for the cognac. “What happened?”

  “Every possible thing that can drive two people apart.” She took a sip of tea. “We’ve been friends since I was a kid —Rafe’s one of the last links to my brother, Billy, who was killed in Iraq. You knew Rafe was deployed there?”

  Peter nodded. “Two tours.”

  “But we didn’t get involved with each other until about six years ago. Probably right before he started to work for you. I’m not surprised you never heard of me—Rafe cut his losses pretty quick where I was concerned.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  She laughed harshly. “Let’s just say I haven’t dated anybody since.” She swirled the tea bag in the mug, staring into its depths.

  “I think oracles use loose tea,” Peter said.

  “The future’s not really worth knowing, is it?”

  “I can’t think of anything worse.”

  “Your brother, for instance. If he’d known he was going to die last night on this island, would he have stayed away?”

  “No,” Peter said. “Rusty thought he could beat all the odds.”

  “So he was a gambler.”

  “A very accomplished one.” He did not want to talk about his brother. He deliberately turned the subject. “I met Rafe around the time of my first harvest. He’d been crewing on and off for Dan Starbuck, but the boat couldn’t really support another guy, and Rafe knew it. That first job turned into a series of things—I was rebuild­ing this house, putting the addition on t
he back. Then the sheep came three years later. At this point Rafe’s indispensable. I live in terror of losing him.”

  “You won’t,” Merry said. “He’s loyal to a fault. He only went to Iraq because he wanted to protect Billy.”

  “And couldn’t. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “My brother was ready to get off the island and see the world,” she said carefully. “I can’t fault him for the impulse. I certainly don’t fault Rafe.”

  “But I’m guessing he does,” Peter said thoughtfully.

  “Enlisting wasn’t entirely a mistake. Rafe’s dad, Jose, thought he should fish like all the da Silvas before him, but you know as well as I do that there’s no fleet left on Nantucket. So he tried the army instead.”

  “He’s not the first.”

  “No.” She grimaced. “It was a nightmare when we heard about Billy. And then Rafe reenlisted. He wasn’t the same when he came back.”

  “Most guys aren’t.”

  “But only a few end up being tried for murder.”

  Peter choked on his cognac and set down the glass. “What did you say?”

  “Rafe. The year before you hired him from Dan. In New Bedford. He was crewing on a trawler owned by some Portuguese cousins. It was a real mess. A real media circus.”

  “Go on,” Peter said.

  “Three guys had been drinking in a bar, one of those places by the pier the New Bed fishermen hang out in. Turns out one of them—it had to be the guy with a petty rap sheet a yard long, a reputed wife-beater, and the ring­leader of the group—was about to lose his boat to the bank. So the more the guys drank, the louder and angrier they got, the more vows of group honor and solidarity they took, the more obscenities they threw at the rich banker types in their BMWs who’ve never fished a day in their lives.”