Murder on the Cliff

by Stefanie Matteson

  Perry’s tomb was a huge marble sarcophagus at the rear of the cemetery. Like the area around his statue in Touro Park, the area around the tomb had been demarcated by colorful red and white banners bearing the Black Ships logo. A semicircle of officials had assembled inside the banners.

  Charlotte took her place at the back of the gathering behind some members of the press. As an official representative, she was supposed to put in an appearance, but at least she didn’t have to say anything.

  Spalding nodded at her from the other side of the semicircle.

  The ceremony was brief. Under the circumstances, everyone was eager to get it over with. The usual remarks about Japanese-American friendship were followed by a few prayers, and that was it.

  As the cluster of officials was breaking up, Just-call-me-Ken came up to her and handed her a small box elegantly wrapped with handmade Japanese paper. “Some pictures from the geisha party,” he said. “A souvenir of the festival.”

  “How nice,” said Charlotte, genuinely pleased. She barely had time to thank him before he was off distributing similar boxes to the other official representatives, from both the United States and Japan.

  As she was leaving, Charlotte caught sight of a familiar white kerchief in the crowd. She caught up with the kerchief out by the lane that wound through the cemetery. “Aunt Lillian?” she said.

  Aunt Lillian turned around, her blue eyes sparkling.

  “Oh, it’s Charlotte. How are you, my dear?”

  “Very well, thanks,” she replied. “Aunt Lillian, does Billy Montgomery have any uncles or great-uncles who might have died and left him some money?” Charlotte knew there were no relatives on the Montgomery side, but she didn’t know about the Harris side. Perhaps Billy was referring to a great-uncle.

  Aunt Lillian thought about it for a minute. “No, my dear. He has only one uncle, Charles Harris, and he’s very much alive.”

  Charlotte remembered now that Connie had a stepbrother who had taken the Harris name. “What about great-uncles?”

  “No. Oodles of great-aunts and second cousins and the like. But none of us have any money to speak of. The only Harrises who have any money anymore are Connie and Paul. And Marianne, of course.”

  “Thank you,” said Charlotte.

  Her inquisitive blue eyes shined. “Is that rascal Billy telling tales again?”

  “Maybe,” Charlotte answered. “I don’t know yet.”

  12

  After breakfast the next morning, Charlotte set out for town. She was going to see a man about a boat. But first she wanted to go back to the temple. She wanted to review everything that had happened—on the spot. She knew from experience that there was nothing like being there to jump-start the thought processes. She parked a few blocks south of Shimoda and walked out to the Cliff Walk. She wanted to approach the house as she had on the morning she had found the body, but she didn’t have time to walk the whole length of the Cliff Walk. Unlike that morning, which had been overcast, this morning was bright and sunny. On days like this, Newport reminded her of someplace other than New England, someplace other than America, in fact. It was a property of the light: despite the bright sun, it was a soft, hazy, golden light, a light that was dulled by the centuries. Though it was only just after ten, The Breakers was already crawling with tourists. Some peered through the tall wrought-iron fence lining the cliff; others gazed out over the balustrade of the second-story loggia. After The Breakers came a couple of private homes, and then Edgecliff. Just past the little channel that she had followed down the cliff that morning was a promontory, the “point” where Tanaka had heard someone opening a pop-top can. As she drew even with it, she noticed a little trail in the underbrush and followed it out to the end, where there was a little clearing, a place for drinking beer or making love. It was beautiful, but also scary: fifty feet below, the waves beat against the base of the cliff. For a moment, she looked out to sea. It was said that you could see the Gay Head cliffs of Martha’s Vineyard from here on a clear day, but she couldn’t make them out. Then she turned in the other direction. At the other end of the shingle beach was the temple, perched on its little knoll. As she gazed out, she found herself looking directly at the spot where Okichi-mago had been pushed over the railing. If the person who had been sitting here that night had also been looking in this direction, he would have been eyewitness to a murder.

  She hadn’t made the connection before between Tanaka’s hearing someone on the point and Okichi-mago’s murder, but now she did. Had that person been Billy? she wondered. And if it was, had he then blackmailed the murderer?

  She hadn’t even needed to go as far as the temple for a jump-start, she thought as she turned back. It was a strong possibility: Billy drank beer; Billy was familiar with the area. Like Marianne, he’d probably spent his summers here as a child. Perhaps the point had been a favorite spot that he returned to whenever he had the chance. The moon had been full that night, or nearly so. He could easily have seen what was happening at the temple. This time Charlotte’s New England horse sense told her that she was on the right track. But what about his car? If he’d stayed on, wouldn’t Shawn have seen his car? Then she remembered Lew saying that he lived in a caretaker’s cottage on the grounds of Bois Doré. Bois Doré was the mansion where the coal baron had hung the gold fruits from the trees. It was only a block away; he could easily have walked. There was also the problem of time: would he have had time to witness the murder, walk home and pick up his car, and still be at the Marriott in time to see Paul arrive a little after twelve? She took a minute to figure it out. The answer was yes, but just. She took a deep breath. She had come up with a couple of answers, but she was still faced with finding the answers to the big questions, namely who had murdered Okichi-mago and Shawn.

  It turned out to be a woman that she had to see about a boat. Her name was Misty, a fitting name for a boat broker. Lew had directed her to Northrup & Johnson, a boat broker with offices in a converted nineteenth-century sail loft on Bowen’s Wharf, the tourist wharf where Bastet had been docked. Northrup & Johnson specialized in “large power and sailing yachts for the discriminating yachtsman,” with offices on the East and West Coasts, Cannes, and Marbella. Charlotte would hardly have called herself a discriminating yachtsman, but Lew had tutored her enough on the phone that she wasn’t going to make a total fool out of herself. Besides, he assured her, rich people like herself didn’t need to know about boats. They hired people to take care of their boats for them.

  Charlotte wasn’t all that rich, but that was a fact that was lost on people in the world outside of Hollywood. Certainly she wasn’t rich enough to be able to plunk down close to a million dollars on a boat, to say nothing of the vast sums it must take to keep it up. While waiting for Misty, she had leafed through the Newport Port Book, a guide to local marine services: fuel, sails, carpentry, galley equipment, crane services, crew placement, electronic equipment, engine services, fire equipment, marine insurance, rigging. The ways in which such a boat could eat up money were endless. Fifty years in front of the cameras had allowed her to accumulate a sizable nest egg; she also had her New York townhouse in Turtle Bay, her vacation house in Maine, and her condo in Los Angeles (she hated Los Angeles, but it was convenient to have a place to stay there). But much of the money she had earned over the years had been squandered by her mother, whom she’d always supported, and who had felt entitled to live in high style after the years she had slaved to support Charlotte and her sister. If Charlotte had sometimes been accused of thinking like a man, it was because she had lived her life as a man with a family to support—an extravagant one. She didn’t begrudge her mother the spoils of Hollywood, but she had always been offended by her extravagance. By nature, Charlotte was temperate, a trait that she must have inherited from her tightfisted Scottish father, who had never contributed a cent toward his family’s support despite his successful law practice. The only contribution he’d ever made was to pay for her tuition at a posh girls’ finishin
g school. Although Charlotte appreciated her education now, it had seemed like a cruel joke at the time because she hadn’t had money enough to keep up with the other girls. Then there was her sister, to say nothing of all the other relatives who had been hanging around for the last fifty years with their hands out.

  But Misty didn’t know that. Misty thought she was a rich Hollywood star.

  “Is there any particular boat you’re interested in?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Charlotte replied. “I’m very interested in Bastet.”

  “She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” After calling up Bastet on her computer screen, Misty proceeded to reel off her vital statistics: “A seventy-three-foot Alden schooner, built in 1924. Four thousand nine hundred feet of sail, a GMC one thirty horsepower diesel engine, carvel planked long leaf yellow pine, bronze fastened on double-sawn oak frames, lead keel, teak deck on oak beams, restored teak and holly cabin sole, Honduras mahogany interior, Sitka spruce spars, new stainless standing rigging, a full complement of Ratsey-Laphorn sails …”

  “What’s the asking price?” interrupted Charlotte.

  “Seven hundred and fifty thousand,” Misty replied as she pushed a button on her keyboard to print out the data. “She’s fully equipped for world cruising,” she continued, still reading from the screen. “Included are charts for the entire world, flags for many foreign countries, a complete inventory of spare parts, as well as china, glasses, cookware, linens, and blankets.”

  As Misty spoke, Charlotte’s imagination carried her off to exotic ports: Bora Bora, the Molucca Islands, Madagascar. In her mind, she pictured herself drinking daiquiris on the fantail against a palm-fringed shore.

  “Would you like to see her? The owner’s not here at the moment. We can go aboard if you’d like.”

  Charlotte said she would.

  After ripping off the data printout, and grabbing some keys, Misty led her out to where the boat was docked.

  Even with Lew’s tutoring, Charlotte couldn’t relate to the vital statistics, but she could relate to the interior. From the moment she descended the companionway into Bastet’s main salon, she was in love.

  “She’s been beautifully restored,” Misty said as she walked around the main salon, pulling up the leaves of the folding mahogany table and opening the doors to the little cupboards that were tucked away here and there. “She can accommodate up to fourteen on short trips, with five or six a comfortable number for long trips. Plus four crew members.”

  Charlotte had been on yachts before, but they had been Hollywood yachts, encrusted with chrome and mirrors, designed to impress. This was a yacht meant for private enjoyment: the cozy mahogany-paneled main salon was fitted with brass oil lamps, a Persian rug, and leaded glass cabinets. There was even a little fireplace surrounded by delft tiles decorated with blue sailing ships.

  “What do you think?” Misty asked.

  “I want to build a fire, pour myself a glass of sherry, and stretch out on the settee with a book,” replied Charlotte.

  “I know.” She nodded her pert blond head. “You don’t see yachts like this very often anymore. Come and see the head.”

  Following her down a corridor, Charlotte peered into the head. Even the bathroom was beautiful, with an exquisitely crafted mahogany sink and cabinet and a teak toilet seat.

  As a child, Charlotte had always dreamed of having a playhouse or a tree house of her very own. The Bastet was like that. Everything you needed tucked away into alcoves or displayed behind leaded glass cabinets, all overlaid with the rich red glow of antique mahogany. It was a perfect little floating world. She could see why Billy might resort to blackmail to get it back.

  “There’s been a lot of interest in this boat,” said Misty as they climbed back up the companionway. “We’ve had one buyer interested for some time, but no offer yet. Then a second buyer came along just this morning and put down a deposit. The second buyer is someone who owned the boat two owners ago, so I think the deal will go through, but you never know.”

  Charlotte wondered how much of a deposit Billy had put down. “How much of a down payment is required?”

  “Ten percent,” said Misty. “For example, if you were to offer the asking price, the deposit would be seventy-five thousand dollars. The deposit is held in an escrow account. Usually the seller comes back with a counteroffer.”

  “You mentioned that another buyer had already made a down payment. Does that mean that it’s too late for me to make an offer?”

  “Not at all. We continually submit offers until the seller signs a purchase and sale agreement. If your offer is more attractive to the seller than the earlier offer, it’s not too late at all.”

  “I’m prepared to offer cash,” said Charlotte.

  “The other buyer is also prepared to offer cash,” said Misty. “However, I’m sure that if you make your offer attractive enough, the seller will consider it seriously.”

  “If the seller were to accept my offer, how long would it take to close? I’d be interested in closing as soon as possible,” Charlotte added.

  “A cash deal?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Well, the buyer usually has a marine survey done, which takes about a week. The boat has to be hauled out of the water. But sometimes the buyer waives the marine survey. In that case, the deal could be concluded in a very short time—say, a week or so.”

  Back at the office, Charlotte told Misty she would think it over and get back to her.

  So! thought Charlotte as she left, Billy hadn’t been lying. He was buying Bastet back. And he had already put down a deposit, which meant that he had already received some of the blackmail money. Misty hadn’t revealed how much Billy had offered, but Charlotte suspected he had offered the full asking price. After pining after his boat all these years, he wasn’t going to risk being beaten out by another buyer. Also, Misty had used the full asking price in her example of what the deposit would be. If she had just accepted a deposit from Billy, the figure would still be fresh in her mind. What’s more, he had offered cash, which meant that he expected to receive the rest of the money by the closing date. Charlotte suspected that he would want the boat as soon as possible. From what she knew of him, delayed gratification wasn’t his forte. Misty had said that some buyers waived the marine survey. Again, Charlotte wondered if Misty had said that because her experience with Billy was fresh in her mind. As she drove back to Briarcote, she tried to put herself in Billy’s place. If he had witnessed the murder on Thursday night, the idea had probably occurred to him immediately that this was his chance to buy back Bastet. He would probably have contacted the murderer on Friday. By telephone, most likely. He could also have sent a note, but it would have taken longer and it might have been traceable. He makes the phone call, disguising his voice. Demands the money. Probably in installments. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars was a lot to ask for all at once, no matter how rich the blackmail victim was. He probably wouldn’t have gone into the delivery arrangements on the phone; he would have wanted to keep the phone call short for fear of revealing himself in some way. Further instructions to follow. Then what? Another phone call, a note? She had the feeling she was closing in on the solution. It was a sense she got. She also got it on the set when everything was going well; she could tell in advance that the picture was going to work. The only trouble was, she didn’t know where to go from here. She needed a script. She didn’t even know how long she was staying, she thought as she pulled into the driveway at Briarcote. Except for the Sayonara Party that Spalding and Connie were throwing for the Black Ships Festival Committee on Wednesday evening, the festival was over. She should go back to New York. But she couldn’t, not yet.

  No one was home at Briarcote. Charlotte was glad of it. She wanted a minute to put her feet up and relax. After helping herself to a glass of lemonade, she did exactly that. Put her feet up on the old coffee table in the library. She hadn’t even looked at a newspaper in a week, she thought as she noticed the Sunday n
ewspapers neatly stacked on one side of the table. Newspaper! Maybe Billy had communicated with the murderer through the newspaper. It was certainly worth checking. She started with Saturday. If he had put an ad in on Friday, it probably wouldn’t have run until Sunday, but she would check Saturday anyway. She scanned the column headings in the classified section of the Newport Daily News: “Situations Wanted,” “Child Care,” “Notices & Personals”—that’s where it would be. She read down the “Notices & Personals” column: “Is your drinking a problem? If you want help call Alcoholics Anonymous.” “Pregnant, upset? Call for counseling.” “Single? Try video dating.” Nothing. The Newport Daily News wasn’t published on Sunday, so she checked the “Personal Notices” column in the classified section of the Providence Sunday Journal next. It was the same story: AA, pregnancy, singles, bill problems, reward for information leading to, answers to your Bible questions. And, at the very end, a five-line notice: “Re: events of the night of July 27–28. 1. Sunday, midnight: the observation deck at Sachuest Point; 2. Tuesday, midnight: The Bells; 3. Thursday, midnight: the bridge at Purgatory.”

  The night of July 27–28 was the night Okichi-mago had been killed. The rest sounded like drop-off points. It certainly looked like blackmail.

  She got up and walked over to the phone on Spalding’s desk. She looked up the number for the city solicitor’s office and dialed. A secretary answered. Charlotte asked for Lew and then waited anxiously for him to pick up.

  In a minute, he was on the line.

  “Lew, I think I’ve got something,” she said, her voice quavering with excitement. “Do you know a place called Purgatory?”

  He replied that he did; it was a chasm in the rocks that formed a steep cliff at the west end of Second Beach.

  “Is there a bridge there?” she asked.

  “Yes. An observation bridge that spans the head of the chasm.”

  “What about a place called The Bells?”