Vineyard Chill

by Philip R. Craig

  I drove to John Skye’s farm, told Clay about my conversation with Jack, and gave him the Browning and its extra shells. He took the gun and said, “How come you’ve brought out this old blunderbuss now when a Remington pump was good enough for me before?”

  “Because we have a plan now but didn’t before,” I said, “and because this one is scarier. Like you said when you talked about stagecoach guards, nobody likes to be at the business end of a double-barreled shotgun. I want you to stand this behind the front door, so it’ll be hidden when you open it and we go in. I’ll snag it as soon as we get inside and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Just make sure they don’t snag it first.”

  “We’ll probably get there about nine-thirty. You be up on the balcony like we planned and then you’ll come down and open the door.”

  He looked at his watch. “I’d better be on my way, then, so I can get things squared away.” He looked at me, smiled a crooked smile, and put out a hand. “I hope this works.”

  I took the hand. “It’ll work. If it doesn’t, run as fast as you can. I’ll be right behind you.”

  We put both shotguns and their ammunition into the Bronco and he drove away. I had a few minutes to spare so I walked around and checked out the place. Everything was fine. Clay was a neat housekeeper, as many sailors are, because on a small boat you have to be if you’re going to live comfortably. There’s no room to be sloppy.

  When the time was right, I drove to the Harbor View Hotel and into its parking lot. Jack and Mickey were waiting in their idling yellow Mercedes. I guessed that their heat had been on for a while and wished that my own worked better.

  I pulled alongside them and rolled down my window as Jack rolled down his. “Good morning,” I said. “Just follow me. I’ll drive slow so you won’t lose me.”

  “Drive as fast as you want,” said Jack. “I won’t lose you.”

  “I’m going to take you all the way to the house,” I said.

  “You don’t need to do that,” said Jack, frowning. “Just get us close and point the way.”

  “It’s no problem,” I said. “Besides, you can’t really see the place until you get there.”

  Before he could argue some more, I fluttered my fingers in a good-bye gesture and drove out the back entrance to Fuller Street, leaving him no choice but to follow me.

  I led the way at a steady forty miles an hour, which is about as fast as my old truck likes to go, and the speedy Mercedes was obliged to dawdle in my wake.

  On Abel’s Hill I turned down the proper driveway and soon fetched the cottage. I could see Clay on the balcony. He had turned from whatever he was pretending to do and was looking at us as we parked our cars in the yard. I was pleased to see that he had a hammer in his hand. It was one of those small details that make a scene believable.

  We got out of the cars and Clay waved his hammer and called, “J.W.! I’ll be right down!” He disappeared from view.

  “Thanks for playing guide,” said Jack. “We can take it from here.” Mickey said nothing, but stood with his hands in his coat pockets.

  “I’ll go in with you,” I said. “While I’m here I’m going to find out where he lives.”

  Turning my back on them, I led the way to the front door, unzipping my coat as I went, and when Clay opened it I led the way in, shook his hand, and stepped aside so Blume and Monroe could follow. “Brought a couple of your old friends with me,” I said.

  “We’re not exactly old friends,” said Jack as he and Mickey entered and Clay moved back toward the middle of the room. “More like we have friends in common.” He and Mickey stepped apart, glanced at me, then looked back at Clay. I reached behind the door and brought out the Browning. When I kicked the door shut behind them, both of the Californians turned and saw the leveled shotgun. Their faces changed.

  “Take your hands out of your pockets,” I said. “Right now.”

  They hesitated but by then Clay had moved to the right and come up with the Remington that he’d stashed behind a handsome sideboard holding summer chinaware. The sound of him jacking a shell into the firing chamber whipped Jack’s and Mickey’s heads back toward him.

  “Last chance,” I said. “Get your hands out of your pockets.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” snapped Jack, feigning innocence but not surprise.

  “You got your warning,” I said. “Shoot them, Clay.”

  “Wait!” yelled Jack, and he and Mickey jerked their hands out of their pockets. Clay tried not to look astonished at my command to shoot.

  “Take off your coats and drop them on the floor,” I said. “Be very careful.”

  “What is this?” Jack blustered as he and Mickey unzipped their new winter coats and let them fall. Mickey’s thumped as it hit.

  “Shut up,” I said. “Both of you get over against that wall and spread your legs. I think you know the routine. If you don’t it’s too late to learn.”

  They knew. They spread their hands against the wall and spread their legs. I kicked their feet farther back like I’d done a time or two, long ago, when I’d been a uniformed cop, and frisked them, coming up with two pistols, two pocketknives, and two wallets.

  “Stay right there,” I said, stepping away and taking a look at the contents of the wallets. They didn’t have much money, just as I’d guessed, but I took what they had and took their credit cards and driver’s licenses, too. I got a third pistol out of one pocket of Mickey’s winter coat and a switchblade out of another. I gave the pistol to Clay, then kicked the coats toward their owners and threw the empty wallets after them.

  “I don’t want you to catch your death of cold, so put those coats on and sit down over there.”

  They sat in overstuffed chairs and looked into their wallets.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asked Jack. “What do you want?”

  “You talk again before I tell you to and I’ll knock your teeth out the back of your head,” I said. “You own that car, or is it a rental?”

  “It’s mine.” His voice was sullen.

  “You have the title with you?”

  “It’s in the glove compartment.”

  “You’re lucky. You’re broke, but at least you can sell the car.”

  “What!”

  “Shut up.” I looked at Clay, who was listening to this exchange with interest. “Go out and bring in that title.”

  He frowned. “You’ll be all right here alone with them?”

  “I have a barrel of buckshot for each of them. That should be enough. If it isn’t, I have all these pistols.”

  The shotgun was enough. Clay went out and came back, title in hand. It was, as I expected, one of those titles that allow a transfer of ownership to be recorded.

  I took the credit cards and cut them in two with Mickey’s switchblade.

  “Hey!” cried Jack.

  “I told you to be quiet,” I said and started toward him, lifting the shotgun like an ax. Jack cowered back into his chair and lifted defensive arms.

  “Hold on, hold on,” said Clay. “I don’t want any blood here if we can help it. Take it easy, J.W.”

  I stopped and looked daggers at Jack, then shrugged and stepped back. I took a deep breath as though to calm myself, then glared at Jack again. “You say another word before I tell you to, it’ll be your last, Clay or no Clay.”

  Jack stayed sunk in his chair, staring at me with large eyes. Mickey hadn’t changed expression or pose.

  “Here’s your situation,” I said. “Your boss, Lewis Farquahar, is dead and you two don’t have jobs anymore, so you thought you’d find Clay and get the money Lewis paid to Mark Briggs. You knew Clay didn’t turn it in at the bank in San Diego because Clay contacted Mark and Mark contacted Lewis and Lewis told somebody who told you, so you figured Clay still had it and you traced him here.

  “You drove because you already had the Mercedes and you were low on cash. It was cheaper to drive than to fly, and besides, if you flew there’d be a record o
f it and you didn’t want that if you could help it. Am I about right so far?”

  Jack started to say something but instead just nodded.

  “Fine,” I said. “I just emptied your wallets and you don’t have much cash, which means you’ve been living on credit cards. I just took your cash and destroyed your credit cards so now you’re really broke. You have a hotel bill you can run out on, but you still need money to get home, which is where you’re going, starting today.

  “You’re going for two reasons: Because I don’t like you and I don’t want you on this island any longer, and because you made a big mistake.” I lifted the shotgun and sighted down the barrels at Jack’s face. He lifted his hands as though they could stop the buckshot.

  “Don’t!” His voice was shrill.

  Even Mickey’s eyes got wide.

  I lowered the shotgun and said, “Look at me, Jack.”

  He peeked through his fingers, saw that the shotgun was lying across my left arm, and lowered his hands.

  “The mistake was thinking that Clay still has the suitcases. He doesn’t. The Feds have the money. Clay sent the locker key to the bank when he couldn’t locate Mark and Lewis got himself killed. The money was too dangerous to keep. The Feds have had it for weeks, since long before you two got here. You made the trip for nothing. Isn’t that right, Clay?”

  “Absolutely,” said Clay.

  “So here’s what you’re going to do,” I said. “You’re not going back to your hotel. We’re going to put you and your car on the first ferry to the mainland. You have about enough cash here to pay for a one-way ticket, but when you get to America you’re going to have to sell your car to get enough money to go home. Out there on the coast, where the living is easy, you can probably find another boss and get back to work. But don’t ever come back here. Do you understand?”

  Jack and Mickey exchanged looks. Mickey looked disgusted, but both of them nodded.

  24

  Jack drove the Mercedes to the ticket office with Mickey in the suicide seat. I sat behind them with a couple of pistols. Clay followed us in the Bronco. At the office Clay went in and got a reservation for an early afternoon boat, an impossible task in the summer but no problem in March. Jack then drove to Vineyard Haven and put the convertible in the boarding line. None of us said a word to one another. I stayed in the backseat until the car was on the boat, then leaned forward and said, “Don’t come back. There’s nothing here for you but grief.”

  “Don’t worry,” growled Mickey. “I never want to see another island.” He used a familiar adjective to emphasize his point and gave Jack a disgusted look. “This was the dumbest thing I ever got talked into.”

  “Remember that,” I said. “So far, all it’s cost you is some time and money. Next time it’ll cost more, if there is a next time.”

  “There won’t be, but you better stay out of California.”

  I got out and went back ashore, where I stayed until the boat left. Then I walked to the parking lot, where Clay waited in his truck.

  “Gone where the good doggies go,” I said.

  We drove back to Abel’s Hill, where my old Land Cruiser waited. We put our firearms into its backseat.

  Clay said, “You’re pretty scary.”

  “Image is everything.”

  “Would you have knocked his teeth out?”

  “I don’t think so, but I was glad when you spoke up.”

  “I’m a born thespian. You think they’ll be back?”

  “Your crystal ball is as good as mine. I can’t imagine that they’re so mad about being sent home broke that they’ll swear revenge, but I guess it could happen. I doubt it, though.” I told him what Mickey had said.

  Clay laughed. “I guess Jack will be coming alone, if he comes at all.” He looked at his watch. “I think I have just about enough time to go to the farm, pack up, and move back over the garage. I feel like celebrating, so I’m going to invite Elly to supper.”

  “Good idea. I’ll follow you to the farm and close the place up after you’re gone.”

  “Why don’t you and Zee come to dinner? It’s on me. I’ll make reservations at Le Grenier.”

  He’d named my favorite island restaurant, but I shook my head. “No, but thanks. I have leftover Coquille St. Jacques at home, and it’s always better the second night. Another time.”

  I followed him to John Skye’s farm, and after he’d loaded his gear into the Bronco and driven away, I checked the house and grounds, lowered the thermostat, locked up, and went home. I felt like someone who’d just been let out of jail.

  That evening, when the kids were in their rooms and Zee and I were sitting in front of the stove looking into the flames and sipping after-dinner brandies, I told her about my day.

  She shook her head. “Sometimes I don’t know about you, Jefferson. You could have been killed or you might have killed those other guys.”

  “I had the drop, and I didn’t think they’d be stupid enough to go up against a double-barreled shotgun. And they weren’t.”

  “But what if they had been stupid enough?”

  “But they weren’t. And they’re smart enough not to come back.”

  There is no end to what ifs, and Zee knew the futility of going down that road, so instead she said, “I love you, Jefferson. I just wish you wouldn’t do these things. I worry.”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you till the game was over. Now there’s nothing to worry about.”

  She whacked me and said, “Oh, yes, there is. Now I have to worry that you’ll do it again and won’t tell me until later.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. This was a onetime thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean it.”

  “That’s something else to worry about: you actually believe what you’re saying.”

  I put my arm around her. “I really mean it.”

  She snuggled close. “Now I’m really worried.” She turned her face to mine and I kissed her perfect lips. They tasted faintly of cognac. Delish.

  The next day was Saturday, and March, just for a change, offered us a day that belonged in June. The sky was clear, the sun was bright, and the air was warm, thanks to a southwest wind that brought balmy Carolina temperatures to New England. They dropped a bit when they crossed over the still-chilly ocean waters to the Vineyard, but were still a taste of summer and roused within us thoughts of gardening. Those thoughts, in turn, enticed us to drive to Cape Pogue for another load of seaweed.

  “Pa?”

  “What, Joshua?”

  “Can I invite Jim to go with us? I don’t think he’s ever been to Cape Pogue.”

  A lot of islanders have never been to Cape Pogue since you can get there only by boat, helicopter, or four-by-four vehicle, and there are many Vineyarders who have none of the above. I thought about the fights between the two boys.

  “Yes,” I said. “And if his parents aren’t sure, tell them I said it was okay and that we’ll pick him up in about half an hour.”

  Joshua ran to the phone.

  “Pa?”

  “What, Diana?”

  “Can I have a friend come, too?”

  Fair is fair. “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Mary Alvarez.”

  I wasn’t going to have too much room for seaweed, if this kept up.

  “Yes,” I said. “When Joshua is off the phone, you can call Mary and invite her. Tell her we’ll come by in about forty-five minutes.”

  Zee, with whom I was packing a lunch basket, said, “Can I bring a friend, too, Pa?”

  “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Robert Redford?”

  “Why not? When Diana gets off the phone, give him a call.”

  “I guess we’d better make a couple more sandwiches even if Robert can’t join us.”

  We did that, then I put rods on the roof rack because you never know when some starving fish might be going by just as you get a yen to cast, and a bit later we were off to pick up Jim an
d Mary, whose parents had raised not a single objection to the trip to Cape Pogue.

  I drove down to Katama, then took a left onto South Beach and headed for Chappaquiddick. I was pleased to note a catboat in the center of Katama Bay, its skipper and crew taking advantage of the lovely day. It might be time for us to put bottom paint on the Shirley J. and hang her on her stake between the Yacht Club and the Reading Room. I wasn’t a frostbite sailor like some, but it wouldn’t hurt to get a jump on summertime.

  On Chappy I fetched Dyke Road, crossed the bridge and turned north, and drove beside the lagoon up to Cape Pogue Pond. There, because the tide was low, I drove close to the water all the way to Simon Point, then crossed the little drainage creek and went out to the jetties. The beach sand there was soft, as it often is, but my old Land Cruiser was up to the challenge and carried us to the point and around onto the rocky north side of the elbow. Miles to the north we could see East Chop jutting into the sound and beyond that the low, dark line that was Cape Cod. There were gulls both in the air and on the water.

  At the crossover, I cut to the inside of the elbow and there, just where we’d found it in January, was a good supply of seaweed. We all got out and felt the warm sun and air fill us with good sensations.

  “Pa?”

  “What, Joshua?”

  “Do you need us to help fill up the bags?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Can Jim and me go to the lighthouse?”

  “That’s Jim and I.”

  “Can Jim and I go to the lighthouse?”

  “Do you know how to get there?”

  “Sure. We just follow the road.” He pointed.

  “Pa, we want to go, too!” Diana looked up at me with eyes like Zee’s.

  “Do you know how to get there?”

  “Sure. We’ll just follow Joshua.”

  “What if you lose sight of him?”

  “We’ll follow the road!”

  Zee said, “All right, but be careful. Stick together and don’t do anything foolish. Joshua?”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “Be careful and keep an eye on your sister.”