Vineyard Prey

by Philip R. Craig

  He nodded. “If she knows anybody here, she hasn’t mentioned his name.”

  “Can you find out?”

  Another nod. “I can ask her when I see her. Meanwhile, I can make some calls. Someone should know.”

  “While you’re calling, can you find out why the DIA is interested in her? Why was Arbuckle watching her?”

  “I can try. Right now, though, we should decide what to tell the DIA people who’ll be investigating his death. I think the best thing for you to do is fess up and tell them everything you know. That should get you off the hook.”

  “What about you and Kate? If I talk, they’ll know about both of you and about the Easter Bunny, too.”

  “A lot of people know about the Easter Bunny, and I can handle the DIA.”

  I sat for a moment and ran things through my mind. Then I looked at Joe and said, “Tell me something, Sarge, was the DIA involved in the trade mission?”

  He said nothing.

  “It occurs to me,” I said, “that maybe the hit on Rudolph and Scarecrow and the Bunny was a DIA caper, and that your boss contracted to do the job for them. Is that what happened?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  But I thought he did know. “Because if that’s the scenario, it explains a lot of things: the DIA knows all about the Bunny probably doing Susan in, at least, and now trying to do in you and Kate, too. That would explain why Arbuckle was here: he wasn’t after Kate; he was trying to make sure the Bunny didn’t get to her. She didn’t know who he was, but he knew who she was. He was probably hoping to nail the Bunny, but apparently the Bunny nailed him first.” I looked at him. “What do you think of that scenario?”

  “No comment.”

  I noticed that my right forefinger was tapping the table all on its own, as if it had its own little metronome in its own little brain. “If I’m right,” I said, “maybe we should leave the Bunny to the DIA guys. There’ll soon be a lot more of them here than there are of him.”

  “You have a lot of confidence in government agencies,” said Joe.

  “Tell me something else,” I said. “Does Kate date guys who work for the DIA?”

  “I don’t know who Kate dates.”

  “With all the IC snoops in Washington watching each other, somebody must know.”

  “Not necessarily. There were guys at the FBI who were spying for the other side for years before they finally got caught. Looking back, it’s pretty clear that somebody should have noticed them, but nobody did.”

  True. Two popular unanswerable questions are “Why didn’t you see that?” and “Why didn’t you think of that?” I’ve never known why I never thought of or noticed things that later seemed to have been perfectly obvious.

  “It’s something else to ask her when I see her,” said Begay. “But why do you want to know?”

  I wasn’t sure. “It’s just that with her being in the spook business, I thought she might naturally gravitate to other spooks. The way cops have bars where they can hang out with other cops and not have to worry about being misunderstood by civilians.”

  Begay shook his head. “Most people in the IC are just normal people who work in an office and go home to their families at night. Their friends aren’t necessarily people in the business.”

  I stood up. “I don’t suppose you’ll change your mind and tell me if I’m right about the DIA being behind the hit on the Bunny bunch.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I will.” He paused, then said, “But I don’t know if you should reject the idea.”

  That was as much as I was going to get from Joe.

  “Any sign of enemy activity down at your house?” I asked.

  “None. But I’m a patient man. He has to come sooner or later.”

  “Maybe he fell for your car-at-the-airport trick. Maybe he thinks you’re really gone.”

  “Those ‘he knows that I know that he knows that I know that he knows’ games can go on forever, but I think the Bunny will bite my bait. Especially if he knows Kate is on the island.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “My guess would be that somebody told him.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Yet.”

  I stood up. “Be careful, Joe.”

  “Yes. You go home and try to stay out of this if you can.”

  “I will,” I said, but I thought it was too late for that.

  I drove home on the gray road between the barren trees and past the steely water. It was a chilly day, with a north wind making it even colder. The gray clouds looked heavy and there was a feeling of snow in the air. The hunters would be wearing their down vests and wool shirts under their camouflage jackets. They’d like a little snow to muffle their steps and to show them the tracks of the deer. As if on demand, a few flakes began to blow across the road. They soon became thicker, and by the time I passed the airport I had to turn on my windshield wipers.

  I wondered if the Bunny, thinking ahead, had brought his own winter hunting duds and shotgun to the island and whether he had bought his out of state hunting license so as to be legal and in the clear if some warden stopped him.

  From time to time I checked my rearview mirror, but saw no one following me through the blowing snow. At the end of our driveway I stopped and picked up our mail from the mailbox. If anyone wanted to find me, all he had to do was look at the name on the box.

  Perhaps that accounted for the car tracks leading into our driveway but not leading out again. A visitor had arrived since the snow had begun to fall and was still here.

  I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

  14

  I drove a few yards down the driveway and parked between two large oak trees that grew close to the track. The trees and the battered old Land Cruiser made an excellent roadblock. No one would be driving away from the house unless I wanted them to.

  I got out and walked directly into the woods. There I put my car keys on the top of a low branch of one of the big oak trees, on the off chance that my visitor might have occasion to search me and then use the keys to move the truck. I wanted his car to stay in my yard even if he managed to get the drop on me.

  The chances were that the driver was a neighbor, or maybe even Zee herself.

  But maybe not. The old comic definition of paranoia came to mind: two noia.

  I went through the oak brush and between leafless trees, circling down toward the house. The snow flurries offered all the camouflage I’d have, but I’d be approaching from the back of my shed so my visitor would have to be looking in the right direction if he was to see me before I got a first look at him.

  Beneath my feet the crackle of dry leaves was muffled by the snow, and I wished it was later in the day, when there would be less light. I also wished I had my old .38 that Olive Otero had been so quick to take into her possession.

  Mr. Wishful.

  I saw the house and shed ahead of me through the trees, darker shapes in the falling white snow. Then, beyond the corner of the house, I made out the rear end of a dark car parked in the yard. Was the driver in the car or somewhere else?

  I circled farther out, then came back, keeping the shed between me and the house. The clasp that held the shed door shut was still closed, meaning that no one was inside. I peeked around the corner of the shed at the house and saw no signs of footprints in the snow by the back door or the movement of curtains in the rear windows.

  I waited and listened and then trotted to the back door and looked through its window into the kitchen. No one was there. I don’t lock my doors, so I was inside in only a moment. I walked to the door of the living room, avoiding the squeaky part of the floor and listening all the way.

  No sound. I peeked through the door. Empty.

  Making no sound myself, I moved through the rooms in the house. There aren’t many and no one was in any of them. Oliver Underfoot and Velcro yawned hello from the guest room bed, and decided not to get up and join me. They seemed unconcerned with any visitor.<
br />
  I saw no sign of melting snow on the living room floor. Was it possible that my visitor actually took closed doors seriously and hadn’t tried the front doorknob?

  I heard the car’s motor start and looked out the front window. The car was Kate’s and she was turning it around.

  What was she doing here?

  I went out through the screened porch and waved to her. She looked surprised and then smiled, stopped the car, and got out.

  “Where did you come from?” she asked, walking toward me. “I knocked, but no one answered. Then I waited, but no one came down the driveway. And now, just as I was leaving, here you are.”

  “I went for a walk,” I said.

  “Are you going to invite me in? In case you didn’t notice, it’s snowing.”

  “Sure,” I said. She smiled up at me as she passed, and I sensed a siren in my presence and understood why Odysseus had himself lashed to the mast. I followed her into the house.

  The first thing that caught her eye was the framed gun magazine cover on the wall that pictured Zee at one of her early pistol competitions. She hadn’t won that one but her looks had made her a cover girl anyway.

  “Your wife?” asked Kate.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “Yes. And a crack shot, too.”

  Kate looked around. “How cozy. I like the way you have your fishing poles hanging across the ceiling.”

  “On Martha’s Vineyard, we call them rods, not poles,” I said, going to the stove and sticking in a couple more pieces of wood. “We keep them in here because this is the only room big enough to hold them.”

  “I don’t suppose you have some coffee.”

  “It won’t take long to make some.”

  “I’d love a cup. Do you mind if I walk around and look at things?”

  “Not at all. Take off your coat.” I took off my own, then made coffee and carried two cups back into the living room.

  She came out of the guest room and took one of the cups. She was wearing slacks and a loose winter sweater that hid her pistol but did little to disguise her body. Her eyes were warm.

  “I love your house.”

  “It’s an old hunting camp my father bought a long time ago when land on the island was still cheap.”

  “It’s exactly the kind of house I imagined you’d have.”

  She sat at one end of the couch and looked down at the locks and lockpicks I kept on the coffee table. “My, are you a locksmith, too?”

  “I got the picks at a yard sale from a woman who didn’t know what they were. I practice picking when I’m in the mood.”

  I sat down in Archie Bunker’s chair. Every house has an Archie Bunker’s chair. Mine was, like all of them, old and comfortable. I’d gotten it from the town dump in the golden years before the environmentalists changed dumps into landfills where you could no longer shop for good, free, used stuff you needed.

  “Isn’t lock-picking illegal?” Her tone suggested that she didn’t care if it was.

  “I don’t think it’s illegal to pick your own,” I said.

  “Are those the only ones you pick?” Her smile curled up the corners of her mouth and her eyes were dancing and hungry.

  Out of some dusty mental cranny came the words of a nearly forgotten Elizabethan ballad:

  Poor kit hath lost her key,

  But I have one to fit

  Her lock if she will try

  And do me not deny;

  I hope she hath more wit.

  “What brings you here, Kate?” I asked.

  She wound a lock of her hair around a finger. “I’m nervous. I’m not getting much comfort from Joe. He wants me to stay in that house and do nothing while he goes out and takes care of the Easter Bunny. I’ve been away from home for a long time. I need distraction.” She looked at me with her hot eyes. “I need a man.”

  I felt a little of that heat inside myself. “It’s not safe for you to be distracted,” I said. “There’s a killer on the island and he seems to be after you.”

  “I don’t have a choice. I’m one of those women who need a man every now and then. I don’t want one for a husband or a longtime relationship, at least not yet. I just need one for right now.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “It’s been weeks. Since before the Bunny spiked Susan Bancroft’s scotch then shot her full of enough dope to kill an elephant.” She paused, then said almost dreamily, “The Bunny just missed getting me at the same time, you know. If he’d come a day earlier, he would have.”

  My ears went up. “You were with Susan the day before she died?”

  “Why not? We were friends and her boyfriend was out of town. Your wife isn’t here today. Come and sit beside me. It’ll be good for us both. And don’t worry, because your wife will never know; I don’t break up marriages.” She patted the couch with one hand and touched her tongue to her lips.

  “I’m tempted but taken,” I said, showing her my wedding ring to emphasize the point.

  “I won’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go.” She started to rise but something in my face stopped her. “Don’t be so damned righteous. And for God’s sake, take that look of sympathy off your face!” She sank down again. “What is it about you damned islanders? First Joe and now you!”

  “There are plenty of island men who’ll bed you in a second,” I said. “And I wouldn’t blame them. Ten years ago I’d have been first in line.”

  She picked up her coffee cup and drank. “Sure. But not now. Jesus, I’m going crazy. You have no idea!”

  But she was wrong about that; though I had read the Fire Sermon, I had never achieved the cessation of desire.

  “Before you start manhunting,” I said, “I want you to tell me something. It’s important.”

  “I’ve already told you what’s important to me and you’ve dusted me off.”

  “My wife is all the woman I want or can handle,” I said. “Do you know a man named Samuel Arbuckle?”

  She looked surprised. “I know the name. I met him once, in fact. He’s a friend of a friend. Why?”

  “Was he one of your lovers?”

  Her lips tightened. “I don’t talk about my lovers. They’re no one’s business but mine.”

  “I don’t think he was, because you’d have recognized him in Vineyard Haven when you saw him. But it will help if I know for sure.”

  She studied me. “The answer is no. Are you telling me that was Sam Arbuckle who followed me out of the bookstore?”

  “Yes. And who followed me later. What do you know about him?”

  She thought for a moment. “Not much. He works out of the Pentagon. A guy I was seeing talked about him sometimes. The two of them had been on some project together, I think. I remember that Arbuckle and his wife came by our booth one time when Stephen and I were having dinner. Arbuckle is a good-looking guy. We all had one of those little tableside chats before they went on their way. Why? Is he here because of me?”

  She had an eye for men, all right. She’d met him once and remembered his looks. “He’s not watching you any longer,” I said. “He’s dead.”

  “What?” Her eyes widened.

  I gestured toward the yard where her car was parked. “Somebody shotgunned him this morning, but he was tough and drove here before he died. Does the word tailgate mean anything to you?”

  15

  Her coffee cup was still in her hand. She carefully put it down on the table. “What are you talking about? As far as I know, when you tailgate somebody, it means you’re driving too close behind.”

  “You don’t know of a place by that name, or maybe a project with that code name?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  I told her about what had happened that morning, and repeated Arbuckle’s last words. “What do you think he meant?” I asked. “Was his bunny our Bunny? And what did he mean by tailgate?”

  She was impatient. “Of course he was talking about the Easte
r Bunny! There aren’t any other bunnies in the picture!” Then she seemed to slow her thoughts. “Tailgate? I can’t imagine what that means, but if it’s not the Easter Bunny, maybe Arbuckle was telling you that we’re wrong in thinking that it was.” She looked at me. “Maybe it’s someone else who’s doing the killing.”

  And when she said that, I no longer saw through a glass, darkly. “He didn’t say ‘tailgate,’” said my voice. “He said, ‘Tell Kate,’ but he was on his last breath and I heard him wrong. He said, ‘Tell Kate.’” I looked at her, full of certainty. “And now he has told you, and you’ve understood. It’s not the Easter Bunny; it’s someone else who’s doing the killing.”

  Her brow furrowed, and my own thoughts raced through the many reasons people have for killing other people.

  Some of those reasons are so whimsical as to be incomprehensible: people kill just to see what it feels like; they kill to experience power or joy or sorrow or some other emotion that life doesn’t otherwise provide. They kill because God or Satan tells them to, or to save the world from aliens from outer space; they kill out of patriotic or religious or tribal fervor.

  But mostly they kill for simple motives such as greed, fear, sex or its lack, and revenge. They kill to get what someone else has, to defend themselves, to get love or destroy the lover who’s left them, or to get even.

  Books have been written about why people kill. One thing they agree about is that every murder involves several stories: the story of the killer, the story of the victim, the story of the two participants coming fatally together through time and space, and, if efforts are made to solve the crime, the story of the detective.

  “How many lovers have you had?” I asked Kate. “How many men? How many women?”

  Her dark eyes flashed. “I told you to leave my lovers out of this conversation. My private life is my own business!”

  I put up a hand. “I personally don’t care if you sleep with baboons three times a day, but whoever killed Arbuckle and Susan Bancroft has a history that links him with them and with you and Joe Begay. The list of such people can’t be too long, but it might include your boyfriends past and present. How many are there?”