A Shoot on Martha's Vineyard

by Philip R. Craig

  I thought Joshua was looking a bit sleepy, so I carried him around until I was sure of it, then put him to bed. He gave me a last heavy-lidded look and drifted away.

  Unlike his innocent Land of Nod, mine still had Cains in it, causing trouble.

  I recognized an old, familiar enemy: self-pity. I was wallowing in it. The No Sniveling sign above the kitchen door was there for a reason. I needed the reminder more often than I should. I willed my whining away. It wandered off, but stayed in sight, not wanting to entirely leave.

  Disgusting. I turned my back on it. It might still be there, but I didn’t have to look at it.

  I also didn’t have to live with being on the short list of murder suspects. Whatever trouble I might be in was of my own making, in part, at least, and I couldn’t really fault the cops for their suspicions, but it wasn’t the sort of interest I wanted from the law. The question was: what could or should I do about it, if anything?

  During my brief career in the army, I met a widely traveled guy who had lived an adventurous life, the latest chapter of which was being sent with me to Southeast Asia. He told me that whenever he was down to his last dollar and had no idea about how to extract himself from whatever challenging circumstance he was then in, he would find a bar, buy a beer, and sit there until he had things figured out. And, he said, things did always get figured out. He’d get to talking with the bartender, maybe, or to some other customer, and before long he’d meet someone who could help find a job to earn travel money, or would take him over the next border, or would introduce him to a woman who would take him under her wing until he was on his feet again.

  I had envied him his far-roaming escapades, for I had traveled nowhere in my then seventeen years, and I’d laughed at his tales and said he must be the original happy wanderer.

  I can still remember his face when he replied. It was a sad face, with ironic eyes and an almost bitter mouth.

  “Kid, I’ve known a thousand guys just like me, and there isn’t a happy wanderer in the bunch. Every one of them would trade all they’ve done for a home and family. Hell, just being in the army with you and these other guys is better than the life I’ve led so far.”

  At the time I’d found that hard to believe, but later, after I’d lost track of him and after my brief participation in the war over there, and still later, after my first wife had left me and I’d left the Boston PD, I knew he was right.

  Still, the beer idea was a sound one, so I got a Sam Adams out of the fridge, popped the cap, and sat down to think things over.

  Alas, no helpful person sat down beside me to show me the way out of my trouble, so I was obliged to work it out alone. I was still at it two beers later when the phone rang.

  It was Drew Mondry. I looked at my watch in surprise. It was early afternoon. I had been brooding for longer than I’d imagined.

  “Sorry I missed the flight,” I said to Mondry. “There was a problem down on South Beach that tied me up.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “They had a guy with a camcorder on board, and between him and his camcorder and me and my camera, I have a good record of where we went and what we saw, even though I don’t know what we were looking at. I got a copy of the video, and I want you to go over the shots we took and tell me what we were seeing. A few places look like possible locations, and I’d like to have you take me there so I can have a look at them from ground level. Can you do that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can we get together tomorrow morning? The film should be ready by then. Have you got a VCR?” “We do.”

  “Can we look at the video there? That way you won’t have to haul your son over here to my room.”

  And you can spend some time in Zee’s house, I thought. Did he know that she would be working, or did he imagine that she’d be at home?

  “Sure,” I said. “But we only have an itty-bitty TV. If you need a big screen, we’ll have to go somewhere else.”

  “All we need is a screen big enough for you to identify a half-dozen sites for me. I took stills of the same sites, and we’ll have those, too.”

  “We can give it a try.”

  “Great. I’ll see you in the morning. Nine-ish? I’ve got to go now. I have some calls to make to the Coast.” He hung up.

  The Coast. I’d often heard the Pacific Coast referred to as the Coast, but I’d never heard the Atlantic called that. Why not? Was there some sort of cultural bias at work here? Some pro-Pacific sentiment of some, kind? Was it, perhaps, a verbal legacy from frontier times when the West Coast was ahead of you, as opposed to the East Coast, which was behind you?

  On the other hand, there’s the tale of the arch New Englander who observed that California was a nice enough place but was too far from the ocean. There was certainly a little pro-Atlantic Ocean bias there.

  Or maybe the Coast was a term you used for whatever coast you weren’t on at the moment. When you were east, the Coast was the West Coast; when you were west, it was the East Coast. Or maybe the identity of the coast in question was always determined by an accompanying phrase such as “back to” or “out to.” You went “out to” the West Coast, but “back to” the East Coast. If we had a north coast, would we go “up to” that one? Or if we had a south coast, would we go “down to” that one?

  We did have a south coast, come to think of it. On the Gulf. Did Mississippians and Alabamians say they were going “down to” the coast? Or, to think yet again, did Ohioans go “up to” their coast? Or were Great Lake coasts somehow immune from these matters?

  I heard Joshua stirring around after his good, long, and no doubt water-soaked nap, and went in to change him.

  “Well,” said Zee, home after work, out of her uniform, and holding her happy son on her lap. “How has your day been, cub?”

  Joshua told her what he’d been up to, and she listened and nodded and made noises indicating her interest in his narrative.

  I’d already told her about my day, but the only thing she hadn’t already known was the part about the Wasque fishing and the call from Drew Mondry. She knew about Ingalls’s death because they’d brought his body to the hospital before transporting it off-island so the medical examiner on the mainland could take it into his care, and she’d gotten most of the finding-the-corpse story from Tony D’Agostine, sergeant of the Edgartown police, who had arrived with the body. Tony, who like most police officers had rarely been involved with murder, had been glad to talk about it.

  The violent demise of the late Lawrence Ingalls was, in fact, already a hot topic of conversation on the island and off, the tale having been leaked early and often by various individuals who knew or thought they knew something about the discovery of the body.

  And mine was a name being increasingly bandied about. I’d gotten a call from Quinn, up in Boston, who wanted my version of the story for the Globe. I gave it to him because he was an old friend from my cop days. Another caller from the rival Herald got a shorter account. Murder on Martha’s Vineyard was big news in Boston, apparently, being the sort of Evil in Eden story that captured the public fancy. After the Herald call, I’d taken the phone off the hook.

  Now it was back on, but we’d agreed that I wasn’t home and that Zee didn’t know when I’d be back.

  “Joshua thinks we need to have an answering machine,” said his mother. “One of those that you can let answer while you listen to hear who’s calling and then answer yourself if you want to.” She bounced him on her knee and gave him a kiss. “Don’t you, Joshua, you cutie?”

  Joshua the cutie burbled and drooled, indicating that he did think so. Zee and he beamed at each other.

  I wasn’t as sure as Joshua. As far as I knew, we were the only house in the United States without an answering machine, and I took a certain amount of reverse snobbish pride in that. On the other hand, it would be nice to know who was calling so I could decide Whether to answer or not. I was rapidly discovering that I did not like being in media spotlights. So much for a career in TV or the movie
s. Drew Mondry might think that Zee had what it took for the silver screen, but he wouldn’t get anywhere with me even if he asked me.

  Which he’d had plenty of opportunity to.do, but hadn’t so far.

  Maybe he’d intuitively sensed that I’d refuse. Or maybe there was some other reason. Looks? Personality? Hmmmmm.

  After Joshua ate, and was rolling around on his blanket on the floor, watched with careful interest by Oliver Underfoot and Velcro, who stayed just out of his reach, I fixed his parents vodka martinis. Two green olives for me, two black ones for Zee. I put out a plate of crackers, cheddar, and smoked bluefish, and Zee and I nibbled and sipped and watched our family members watching us and other things visible only to babies and cats.

  “I don’t like you being a suspect,” said Zee. “Even if you didn’t do it, people will always wonder, and some of them will think you did do it even when they catch the real killer.”

  “This could touch you, too,” I said to Zee. “The people who work with you may start to treat you differently.”

  “None of my friends will. None of my real friends. I don’t care what the others think or do.” She made a fist. “If they say anything about you, though, I’ll punch out their lights!”

  I had never heard her say such a thing before, and was slightly shocked. I put my arm around her. “No, don’t punch anybody’s lights out. I appreciate the offer, though.”

  “They’d better not say a thing!” said Zee.

  “It doesn’t make any difference what they say,” I said.

  “They’d better catch this guy quick,” said Zee. “The longer it takes, the worse it will be. The problem is that there are too many suspects.”

  True, but he had his defenders. I met one of them the next day in the parking lot of the A & P.

  Early morning is the only time to shop at the A & P during the summer. There’s no traffic jam getting in and out of the parking lot, and there aren’t any lines at the cash registers. Of course some of the stuff you might want to buy hasn’t been put out on the shelves yet, but that’s a small price to pay for a quick entrance and a quick exit. Joshua and I had arrived just after the doors had opened, and now we were heading out again, pushing our carriage.

  The woman named Beth was waiting for us. Later I guessed that she must have been going to our house to find me, but had spotted us and followed us to town, waiting for her chance. She found it when I put Joshua in his car seat and started loading the groceries into the back of the Land Cruiser. I heard her voice from behind me.

  “You killer! You wouldn’t leave him alone, would you?”

  I turned and saw her. She was pointing an old-fashioned revolver at me. Her face was filled with pain. Beyond her, the guy who collects the carts in the parking lot and takes them back to the store looked at her, looked again, and ran into the store. Another customer came out and pushed her cart right by us, seeing nothing.

  “I didn’t kill him,” I said in a distant-sounding voice. I moved myself away from the Land Cruiser, getting Joshua out of the line of fire. “I found him dead. I tried to revive him.”

  “Liar! Don’t move another step!”

  “My son’s in the truck,” I said, still moving. “I don’t want you hitting him by mistake.”

  Her eyes flicked to the old Toyota, and I inched nearer.

  “And there are other people who might get hurt,” I said. “That lady there . . .”

  She suddenly saw the woman with the shopping cart, off to my left, trying to get her car door open, still unaware of any drama.

  She hesitated and I pointed to my right. “And there’s that little girl.” I was on my toes. I raised my voice. “Stay away, honey! Don’t come any closer!”

  Beth looked to her left, trying to see the girl who wasn’t there, and I ran at the gun.

  I caught her gun arm and brought her wrist down across my rising knee. The pistol flew out of her hand. She screamed like an animal and stabbed at my eyes with her other hand. I pushed her away and we both went for the gun. She was quicker, but as she swept it up, I hit her behind the ear with a hard fist and she went down and out on the pavement. I picked up the pistol.

  The woman shopper had finally noticed us, and was staring open-mouthed. Then her face grew furious.

  “Beast!” she cried. “Wife beater!” She looked beyond me. “Call the police! I saw it all! I’ll testify in court, you misogynist! You won’t get away with this!”

  Misogynist? I’d always fancied myself a philogynist.

  I turned and saw a small crowd at the door of the store. As I looked at them, one of them dashed inside.

  Not too much later I heard the sirens coming. I checked Beth. She seemed to be breathing normally. I leaned against the Land Cruiser and waited.

  — 11 —

  I was sitting in the chief’s office with sleepy Joshua on my lap. The pistol lay on his desk in a plastic Baggie.

  The chief looked at it, and reached for his pipe and tobacco. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if some woman or maybe her husband had taken a shot at you back in your bachelor days, when you were running wild with the ladies. Now that you’re a married man and all settled down and like that, I thought that the only woman who might shoot you would be Zee. I didn’t think it would be Beth Harper.”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny. This crackpot thinks I kacked Lawrence Ingalls. I would appreciate it if you’d sit down and have a talk with her and tell her that I didn’t do it. I don’t want her trying this again. She might kill me next time!”

  “I’ll have a talk with her.” “Good.”

  “But I won’t tell her you didn’t do it, because I don’t know whether you did it or not.” “Gosh, thanks again.”

  He stuffed tobacco into his pipe. “Don’t get all huffy. I’ll tell her that I’m pretty sure you didn’t do it, and that’ll be the truth because not even you are dumb enough to kill a guy then call the cops to come and find you there.”

  Killers at the scene actually call the cops pretty often, of course, but it’s usually after domestic violence or a killing between friends, when the survivor really doesn’t know what else to do and hasn’t any other place to go. Murders like this one, way out in the boonies, are usually different. These killers generally like to get away if they can manage it.

  “You use your grandfatherly charm,” I said. “And don’t give her gun back to her.”

  “If she decides to shoot you,” he said, “she’ll find another gun. You really have a sweet effect on the people you meet. Five minutes after you’re introduced to Ingalls, he dukes it out with you, and now this woman you barely met two days ago pulls a gun.”

  “Where’d she get the six-shooter, by the way?”

  “Well, now, it seems that it was Ingalls’s weapon. He had a permit for it, all legal and everything. She got it out of his house up in Chilmark before she came looking for you. He’d had a place up there for a couple of years. Might explain why he had such strong feelings about enforcing the environmental laws on the island. Hell, the Marshall Lea people practically have him canonized.”

  The Marshall Lea people. The No Foundation. Not my favorite conservation group. Naturally, they’d have been big Ingalls fans.

  “I’m not much of a believer in saints,” I said. “And I never heard of one who needed a pistol permit.”

  “Which may help explain why you have yours,” said the chief. He got up. “Let’s go outside so I can stoke this furnace.”

  The chief’s office had its own outside door, which allowed him to escape his smokeless office and indulge in his tobacco habit when the craving came to him. Although a reformed pipe smoker myself, I envied his briars nevertheless, and often thought of taking up the habit again.

  We went out and he lit up with his trusty old Zippo lighter. I took a quick sniff of the fumes (lovely!), then carried Joshua upwind.

  “A lot of people shoot on this island,” said the chief. “Maybe Ingalls shot targets.”

  I knew many of the island hunte
rs and targeteers. “I never heard of him doing that,” I said. “But I’ll ask Manny Fonseca. If Ingalls was a shooter, Manny will know.”

  The chief nodded. Manny Fonseca was not only Zee’s shooting instructor and Edgartown’s most dedicated gun aficionado, but he had personally customized the .45 Zee was shooting. He had a basement shop in his house filled with shooting paraphernalia and literature, he was NRA all the way, he bought and sold weapons as fast as he could get his hands on them, and he knew every other shooter on the island.

  “On the other hand,” said the chief, “Ingalls’s permit was in his wallet, and it reads that it was for all lawful purposes, so maybe he had some other reason for wanting it.”

  In Massachusetts, you have to say why you want your pistol permit. You can say you want it for target shooting, or for protection of person and property, or for other reasons. Wanting it for all lawful purposes is the most comprehensive reason, and allows you to carry just about whenever you want to. My permit and Zee’s were for all lawful purposes, even though Zee usually only carried her little Beretta .380 and/or her new .45 to and from target ranges and pistol competitions, and I rarely carried my old police .38 at all.

  “Maybe he thought somebody didn’t like him,” I said.

  “If so, he was right. Somebody didn’t,” said the chief. “But when he needed his gat, he didn’t have it.”

  Such is often the case. Having a weapon to defend yourself, an idea strongly supported by the NRA and guys like Manny Fonseca, usually doesn’t do you any good. Typically, you don’t have it when you need it, or it gets stolen out of your house, or you get shot with your own gun. Even cops, who are well trained with weapons, are often killed or wounded with their own sidearms. Guns are dangerous things.

  I rocked Joshua gently back and forth, and he slept on. “I know a lot of people who didn’t like Ingalls,” I said, “but I don’t know of any who were mad enough to shoot him.”

  “Some people think you were.” The chief puffed his pipe.