Vineyard Fear

by Philip Craig

  “Beautiful day for a ride,” said Billy Jo. “You’ll be stiff tomorrow, but you’ll survive. Riding takes muscles you don’t use doing other things.”

  I gave an experimental moan and she smiled.

  “I know a fake groan when I hear one. You have a couple of shots of red-eye and a good night’s sleep and you’ll feel a lot better.”

  “Have one with me,” I said. “I’ll treat. The bar of your choice.”

  She thought awhile. “Okay. But just one. I’ve got to get these horses home. Let me see . . . I’ve got it. Just the place for a man who likes his barley pops. A joint that makes its own beer!”

  I brightened. “Sounds just right!”

  We drove down into the Animas Valley. Long shadows reached across the valley floor from the west, but the eastern cliffs were ablaze with sunset light. In Durango Billy Jo parked the pickup and trailer west of the railroad tracks and gimpy me walked with her up to Main Street. There, right beside Radio Shack, was Carvers bakery, cafe, and—yes!—brewery! We took a booth, declined the waitress’ offer of food, and ordered two Animas City Amber Ales. They arrived and we touched mugs.

  “Cheers. And thanks.”

  I drank. Delish! Durango found increased favor in my eyes.

  “What are you going to do about this man Orwell?” asked Billy Jo.

  “I don’t know if I can do anything, but now, at least, John knows what’s going on. I’ll talk to some cops. You know, a town with its own brewery can’t be a really bad town.”

  “Then you’ll love this one. It’s got two.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Down toward the end of Main, Father Murphy serves his own brews.”

  “Well, when we’re done here, we can go there.”

  “Sorry. The horses. Remember? Next time.”

  “I owe you more than a beer,” I said. “I owe you dinner, at least. I’d like to take you someplace. Maybe some good Mexican food. We don’t get much of that on the island.”

  She smiled. “You get Mexican food and I’ll have seafood.”

  “Can we do that in one restaurant?”

  “Maybe we’ll have to go out twice.”

  “Maybe we will.”

  “Why don’t we start tomorrow night? You can talk to your people during the daylight.”

  “All right. Shall I pick you up?”

  “I’ll pick you up, since I’m the one who knows where we’ll be going. Seven?”

  “Seven it is.”

  She finished her beer and flowed up onto her feet. It seemed a shame to leave before trying the Purgatory Pilsner or the Iron Horse Stout, but she had the wheels, so I floundered up in turn.

  Back at the motel, I was very conscious of her body next to mine.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then,” she said. “If I can help you out before then, give me a call. You have my number.”

  I got out and she drove away. I thought of her sleek body and dark eyes, and her dark hair sweeping down from her broad-brimmed hat.

  I went inside and went to the phone on the bedside table. The chief, in Edgartown, would be at home. I figured he’d had time to finish supper so I put through a call.

  “I thought it might be you.” He sighed. “I’ve had a nice day. I knew it couldn’t last.”

  — 18 —

  “I’m doing your wife a favor by calling you,” I said. “Everybody knows you can’t talk and smoke at the same time, so she’ll thank me for temporarily saving your house from another fumigation from your pipe.”

  “Annie likes my pipe,” he said, probably truthfully. They had been married for over thirty years and he’d been puffing his briar all that time and probably longer. I had once smoked a pipe myself, and still missed it.

  I told him that I’d found John Skye and that tomorrow I was going to see the local cops.

  “They’ll have the latest information by then,” he said. “You can have it now.

  “Early this morning Gordon Berkeley Orwell came out of the Maine woods, made sure he was seen by several people at the outfitting station, got into his Jeep, and drove off. We figure he had time after he left the island to ride up near there by bus, get out someplace not too far from where he was supposed to be hiking, walk into the hills, and come back out again where people could see him. On the other hand, maybe he really was up there in the woods all along, and we’ve had our eye on the wrong guy.”

  “Do you think you’ve had your eye on the wrong guy?”

  “No.”

  “Did Gordon Berkeley Orwell have a sister named Bernadette?”

  “Yeah. A student up there at Weststock College. Died this summer. Drugs. Weststock, that’s where this Orwell guy, if it was him, tried to hit Skye the first time. Drugs, Skye, Orwell’s sister. If there’s a tie-in, that seems to be it. How’d you know about Bernadette Orwell?”

  “I met her last spring when a bunch of Weststock students stayed at John’s place doing some sort of sociology study. Skye says she was a student of his a year ago, but that he’s barely seen her since.”

  “Does Skye do drugs?”

  “He does booze.”

  “Did he ever do other drugs?”

  “Is there anybody under sixty who hasn’t at least tried grass?”

  “I don’t know. Some, probably. Do you believe him about not seeing the girl since the class she took?”

  I’d been running that through my head. “Yeah, I think I do. Of course, I’m also the guy who predicted the Sox would go all the way last year. Where’s Orwell now?”

  “He went home. Back to New Jersey. He’s had a bad couple of years. His father died summer before last, and his sister OD’d this summer. His mother’s the only one left. Orwell was stationed down south of the border somewhere. Central America or maybe farther south. Adviser to some army or government or other, or maybe he was something more than that. Home on extended leave.”

  “Career man?”

  “Captain. Assigned to some kind of special outfit. Too young for Nam, but he’s been a few other places as near as I can tell. The Pentagon is being pretty cagey about just what it is he does.”

  “How’d he get the limp?”

  “In the line of duty, we’re told.”

  “How?”

  “We’re not told.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “How should I know? He was home earlier today.”

  “Can you give me his home phone number?”

  “No. Police business.”

  “Weststock College will have Bernadette’s home address and phone. I can get it from them. It’ll just take longer.”

  “Wait.” He put me on hold. After a while, he came back. “I had to call the station on the car radio.” He gave me the number. “What are you up to?”

  “I want to find out if Orwell’s still there. If he is, I want to talk to him. If he’s the guy who’s after John Skye, I want to know it. If he isn’t, I want to know that, so I can tell John to watch out for somebody else.”

  “His mother is at their home. She’s lost a husband and a daughter, so don’t be too tough.”

  “I’m not tough.”

  I hung up and called the New Jersey number he’d given me. A thin female voice answered.

  “Hi,” I said, putting a bit of aped Colorado twang into my voice. “This is J. W. Jackson. I heard ol’ Gordy is back stateside and I thought I’d give him a call and talk some old times. Is this Miz Orwell?”

  “Yes. You’re a friend of my son, Mr. . . .”

  “Jackson. J. W. Jackson. Pleasure to talk to you, ma’am. Yes, ma’am, Gordy and me have been a couple of places together. You know. Sure hope he’s there. Like to talk to him while he’s up here.”

  “I’m sure he’d like to see you too, Mr. Jackson, but I’m afraid Gordon isn’t here right now. He’s gone out to Jackson, Wyoming, to do some hiking in the Grand Tetons. You just missed him.”

  “Durn! Wyoming, eh? He leave you an address or any such thing, Miz Orwell? Sure like to say
hello . . .”

  “I’m afraid he didn’t. Where are you now, Mr. Jackson? Perhaps you’d like to come by for some tea. It’s always a pleasure to meet my son’s friends . . .”

  “Ma’am I’m in a phone booth in Atlanta, so I’m afraid I can’t accept your invitation. Sure do thank you for it, though. Gordy just now headed out, eh?”

  “Yes. He flew west just this afternoon. He’d been up in Maine, you know. Why, I barely saw him before he was off again. Oh, dear. He’ll be so disappointed to miss your call. Perhaps he can contact you later . . .”

  Then I did a cruel thing. I said, “That’d be terrific. Say, how’s that sweet sister of his doin’? I tell you, old Gordy sure dotes on that girl.”

  There was a silence. Then the thin voice spoke. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Of course you couldn’t know. Bernadette died earlier this summer. It was . . . very sudden . . .”

  I made myself go on. “Oh, damn! Pardon, ma’am. I sure am sorry to hear that. That’s about as bad a thing as can happen to you. Yes, I sure am sorry. How are you and Gordy doin’?”

  “It will take us time, Mr. Jackson. Right now everything is . . . You must have heard how Gordon hates those Eastern colleges. Just like his father in that respect . . . Then to have this happen . . . It’s been a difficult time for us. First the colonel and now Bernadette . . . To be straightforward, it’s almost driven Gordon mad. I’m half mad myself at times . . . But I must ask your pardon. These are family matters . . . Still, I do wish Gordon had a friend to talk to . . .”

  “Yes, ma’am. Gordon can find me if he wants me. Just tell him J. W. Jackson called. Well, I got to go. Nice talking to you, ma’am. Awfully sorry about your daughter. You have a nice day, now.”

  “Yes. A nice day. Thank you.”

  I hung up and opened another beer. I felt like lead. Was it worth it to hurt a mother to learn only that her son was almost mad with grief? I didn’t know. What I did know was that Gordon Berkeley Orwell could be showing up anytime now. I wondered if I should go out to the airport and just sit there. Sooner or later, he should step off some plane, if he was coming. Then I thought some more. I was wrong. He could fly to some other town and then drive to Durango. I thought of his mother’s voice. It was the voice of a woman who hadn’t had many nice days lately.

  I finished my beer, got into my car, and drove downtown. Durango was alive with automobiles, brightly lit stores, bars, and restaurants. I found a parking place and walked along Main Street. There were souvenir shops with Japanese-made Indian headbands, bows with rubber-tipped arrows, rubber-tipped lances, all apparently furnished by the same oriental wholesaler who provided the goods displayed at the Indian shops at Gay Head. There were stores with windows heavy with silver and turquoise necklaces, rings, and watch bands. There were stores with windows full of cowboy hats, boots, and belts. There were lots of restaurants and bars.

  I went into the Diamond Belle Saloon and found myself in a re-created Gay Nineties bar, complete with mustachioed bartender and barmaids in tiny dresses and net stockings. I wondered if the barmaids felt exploited. The bar was noisy. Under a balcony at the back of the room was a sign I appreciated: Work is the curse of the drinking classes. True. There was a rail at the foot of the bar. I put my Teva on it and ordered a Sam Adams. No luck. I ordered a Bass Ale and did better. The Bass was smooth and good.

  Half of the men in the bar were wearing cowboy hats, and the other half were wearing baseball caps. I wondered if I should buy myself a Stetson. Maybe some boots, too. Then I thought again. Where would I wear cowboy clothes on Martha’s Vineyard? I listened to the noise. Western accents and tourist accents. People seemed pretty happy. I had another Bass and felt it. The altitude, maybe.

  I went out and down the street to the train station. No trains this time of night. I turned and walked back up Main Street. I came to Father Murphy’s Pub. I went in and discovered that Father Murphy served not one but two locally brewed beers! I drank a glass of each while I devoured a sandwich. Durango seemed to be an excellent town. Two breweries. Who’d have thunk it?

  I thought some more about buying cowboy clothes. Nah. Then I thought awhile about Gordon Berkeley Orwell. After a while I went to find my car. It took a while, but I managed it, and then managed to find my motel, too. On the way I saw a lot of churches. I wondered if there were more bars, churches, or motels in Durango. I thought it would be a close contest. I wondered what Zee was doing, and then remembered Billy Jo Skye’s hand in mine. I took two aspirin and went to bed.

  In the morning I had a bloat breakfast at the diner and went downtown to finch the police station, which turned out to be on Second Avenue across Tenth Street from the county courthouse. Arrest ’em, jail ’em, try ’em, hang ’em. All in one city block. Western justice. I was impressed. I parked and went into the station.

  Police stations are a lot alike. This one was newer than others I’d seen, but otherwise pretty familiar-looking. I gave my name to the cop at the front desk and asked for the chief. The desk cop raised an eyebrow and I handed him the letter the chief in Edgartown had written for me. He read it, looked at me, then handed the letter back and gestured toward a door. “Back there, Mr. Jackson.”

  I went through the door and found myself across a desk from the chief. I gave him my letter, which he read and handed back.

  “Sit down,” he said. I sat. “Well, Mr. Jackson, what can I do for you?”

  “You’ve heard about this man Orwell.”

  “Yes. So far, of course, there are no real charges against him.”

  I told him about my experience in Weststock and on the Vineyard. “I talked to his mother last night,” I concluded. “She said Gordon Orwell flew west yesterday afternoon. To go hiking in the Grand Tetons.”

  “Maybe that’s what he’s doing.”

  “Maybe.” I told him what I’d been doing for the past two days. He listened patiently. I said, “If Orwell really is after John Skye, he may be showing up here pretty soon.”

  “We’ll keep our eyes open, but you have to remember that we have thousands of tourists coming in here all summer long. We might miss him. Easy enough to do. We don’t know what he looks like.”

  Neither did I. “The chief is trying to get a picture of him. He said he’d wire it to you.” I got up. “Maybe I’ll talk with the sheriff, too.”

  “Good idea.” He put out his hand and I took it. “Don’t be rash, Mr. Jackson. Remember that you don’t really know whether this man Orwell has actually done anything.”

  “Somebody really did something.”

  “Yes, but let the police handle it. Thanks for coming by. Stay in touch If you learn anything more, let us know.”

  I went across the street to the courthouse and told my story to a deputy sheriff. He also shook my hand, thanked me, and told me to leave the matter in the hands of the professionals.

  I found a phone booth and called Billy Jo Skye’s house. Her mother answered. She said she was glad I’d called.

  “A man phoned this morning, wondering if I knew how he could get in touch with John Skye. Said he was a friend of his.”

  “Did he give his name?”

  “Yes. He said his name was J. W. Jackson. I did what you said. I called the Sheriff’s Department and told them about it.”

  The deputy I’d talked to hadn’t mentioned it to me. Maybe he didn’t know about it. Or maybe he just didn’t think it was any of my business. Some cops are like that.

  — 19 —

  “Funny man,” I said to Wilma Skye.

  “Of course, if John and his family hadn’t recognized you, there was no way we’d know this guy wasn’t you,” she observed. “Or, for that matter, that you were who you said you were.”

  True. “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him to call back this afternoon. That maybe I’d know then. Then I phoned your motel, but you were out. Then I got a call from Alison, that’s Mack’s brother’s wife, and she said she’d gotten a call, too. J. W. Jackson looking for John Sky
e. She called the Sheriffs Department, too.”

  “What did she tell The guy who said he was me?”

  “Told him she didn’t know where John was. Fellow asked her how he could find the farm. She told him because she couldn’t figure out how not to. Figured he’d find it anyway. They’ve got these maps with all the road numbers marked on them, you know. You can get them in town.”

  “No damage done.”

  “What should I tell him when he calls back?”

  A good question. I didn’t know a good answer. “I’ll call you back,” I said.

  I went back to the Sheriffs Department. The deputy was gone. I told another deputy my story and my thoughts and what Wilma Skye had just told me.

  The deputy raised a restraining hand and glanced at a page of scribbles in front of him. “Wilma Skye says that a guy calling himself J. W. Jackson phoned and said he was looking for John Skye. Later Alison Skye told us the guy talked to her, too.”

  “Right. And Wilma told the guy to call back this afternoon.”

  “Right. But the guy really wasn’t J. W. Jackson, because you’re J. W. Jackson, and you think the guy might really be . . .” He looked down at the scribbles, “Gordon Orwell. Is that right?”

  “Right.”

  “Is this going to make more sense to somebody else than it does to me? I sure hope so.”

  I hoped so too. I went back out to the phone and rang Wilma Skye. “When this guy calls back,” I said, “tell him that someone will meet him at Vivian Skye’s place with a map so he can show him exactly where John is. I’ll be the someone.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the world’s best idea.”

  “I’ll have the edge. I’ll expect him, but he won’t expect me.”

  “Didn’t you say this guy took a couple of shots at you?”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t really mean it the second time.”

  There was a silence at the far end of the line. Then Wilma asked, “You have a gun?”

  “No.”

  “You swing by here on your way. Matter of fact, come for lunch. I understand that you and my little girl have a date tonight, by the way.”