Nantucket Red Tickets

by Steven Axelrod

  “And this guy was buried nearby.”

  I nodded. “Less than a mile away.”

  “There you go, then. The government tried to do animal testing on tobacco back in the fifties, but no animals would touch this stuff. Rats were the last resort, they’ll sample most organic material to see if it’s edible. But they wouldn’t go near this crap. Which is actually a pretty good test all by itself.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now I find out who was selling snuff on the island twenty years ago, and see if they remember any bulk sales in November of 1997.”

  He let out a whistling breath, almost a laugh. “Sounds like a long shot.”

  “I guess. But they pay off big when they come in. My dad won the trifecta at the Preakness in 1991—Hansel, Corporate Report, and Mane Minister, win, place, and show. Twenty-two hundred bucks on every two-dollar bet.”

  “Do you mind if I ask—how much did he…?”

  “Just two hundred dollars. But we went home with more than two hundred thousand. Three cops escorted us off the Pimlico grounds through a secret tunnel under the track. It was quite an afternoon for a nineteen-year-old boy.”

  “Wow.”

  “So, anyway…I like long shots. Especially when all I have to do to win them is work.”

  “All right, then. Good luck, Chief. Let me know how it all turns out.”

  My intercom buzzed: Haden had put a call in to FMC Devens, the federal medical prison, and he had Ed Delavane waiting on the line. The last time I dealt with Billy Delavane’s brother, two years before, he’d helped me catch the men who were planning to bomb the Boston Pops concert at Jetties Beach. That day he told me a bizarre, twisted story of rage and retribution that stretched all the way back to the first Iraq war. The case was a complex jigsaw puzzle, and he’d held a few key pieces, though he gave them up grudgingly.

  Now I heard his familiar, grating rasp. “Howdy, Chief. How’s it hangin’?”

  “Pretty well, Ed. Thanks for asking.”

  “You looking for another war story?”

  “More of a crime story this time,” I said.

  “Haden gave me the heads-up. So you finally figured out who was buried in that grave.”

  “Fella named Ted Coddington. You know him?”

  “I shoplifted from him a few times. Candy from a baby? Fuck that. Try golf clubs from a trust fund baby. Didn’t bust me on the course, either. You’d never catch him dead at Miacomet—he was more of a Sankaty Head Golf Club type.”

  Miacomet was a shabby nine-hole public course near Bartlett’s Farm. The rich summer people and local gentry preferred the two lavish, members-only eighteen-hole swaths of greenery, with their luxurious clubhouses, at the east end of the island. Sankaty was the old money sanctuary, with a decade-long waiting list that left it unavailable to the washashore dot-com millionaires and hedge fund managers. They had to make do with the less exclusive but more luxurious Nantucket Golf Club.

  “You hear anything about Coddington back then? I mean…was he involved in anything shady?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You’d know. It’s a small town and it was even smaller in 1997. If I wanted to know paint gossip, I’d talk to Mike Henderson. Real estate? I’d ask Elaine Bailey—”

  “And for crime, you come to me. What an honor.”

  “Think back. Anything? Gambling debts, drug use, feuds, infidelities?”

  “Well, everyone was fucking everyone back then and he was always fighting with his partner and his neighbors, but who wasn’t? Everybody wants a bigger share, nobody wants the asshole next door to put in a hedge or build that ugly guest cottage. Same old same old. You’re digging out a dry gopher hole, Chief.”

  I blew out a breath. I still had one more gap for him to fill in. “Say, Ed—what really happened to Brandon’s body?”

  “Good question.”

  “Come on. It was a misdemeanor. You’re already serving twenty to life. No one would bother with this, even if I told them—and I won’t.”

  He laughed; or maybe he was just clearing his throat. “Bran was a fisherman, Chief. Worked a sixty-foot Eastern rig dragger, the Jean Marie—all seasons, all weathers, east of the moors to the Grand Banks. We gave him a proper burial at sea.”

  So that was it. I should have guessed. “Thanks, Ed.”

  “You just love getting all the answers, don’tcha? All the boxes filled in, nice and tidy.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Looks like you’ve found a home, then.”

  “Yeah. Any message for Billy?” The two brothers hadn’t spoken for years, but there was always hope.

  Or maybe not. Ed’s voice was flat when he answered. “Sure, Chief. Measure twice, cut once.”

  My next call was to Ed’s old nemesis, ex-Police Chief Ted McGrady. I figured he’d know which stores sold chaw back in the day; and I had a few other questions to ask him.

  “Well, let’s see now,” he said, talking on his cell phone as he walked the stony beach near his house, the wind a low static roar behind his words. “You had the Hub, of course, and Island Value—we always used to laugh at that name! The most overpriced general store on the Eastern Seaboard calling itself ‘Island Value.’ That’s Nantucket for you. Land of bizarre store names. Hell, we even had a shop that sold sneakers called itself ‘The Athlete’s Foot.’ Who else? Ahhhh—Cumberland Farms and Lucky Express. Oh, yeah, and the Smokehouse, on East Chestnut Street, across from the old police station. That place is long gone now. Fella named Hugh Tabor ran it, but he left before the towers fell.”

  “Any idea where he might be living now?”

  “Someplace warm, I’d bet. He’s got to be in his seventies and nobody complained harder about a Nantucket winter. I could tell him a thing or two about that! My heating oil froze two years ago February. Right in the tank! Now that’s cold, son. Anyway, if you’re looking for old Hughie, I’d start in Florida. He told me once, ‘I used to laugh at those pathetic old people retiring to Miami Beach to get away from the snow. Now I understand.’ I’d peg him for more of a Key West man, though. He loved his Hemingway.”

  “Thanks. This is a good start.” I finished scribbling a note, took a sip of my cooling coffee and changed the subject. “We identified the skeleton,” I said.

  “Brandon Delavane?”

  “No, actually it’s a guy named Theodore Bainbridge Coddington III. Ever run across him?”

  “Sure, I knew Ted. Knew the whole family. Old-time Nantucket. I think one of his ancestors bought the island from the Wampanoags.”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  “You mean did anyone hate him enough to put a bullet in his skull and bury him out in the moors? No. Not that I knew of.”

  “So he was a popular guy.”

  “He was a rich guy who kept to himself. He didn’t drink, he didn’t abuse the waiters at the local restaurants. Married, member of all the right clubs. Brought his wife’s sister over from Eastern Europe somewhere. I asked him about that once. The whole immigration thing moved so quick. He said ‘Money solves problems, Ted.’ What else? Supported the Boys & Girls Club. On the board of the NHA and the Basket Museum. Pretty standard stuff.”

  “Come on. There must have been something askew somewhere. He didn’t end up like the rest of the Yacht Club fork-lifters.” It was a phrase I had learned from Jane Stiles, whose grandfather had started the Nantucket Yacht club in 1906, and served as its first Commodore. It was an old salts’ dismissive term for members who didn’t sail, and only used the club for its social cachet, hosting dinner parties or taking afternoon drinks on the patio.

  McGrady chuckled. “You’re learning the lingo, son. And I guess you’re right. Fact is, I figured Ted took a powder, you know? He wouldn’t have been the first one to drive onto the boat, drive off at Hyannis, and just ke
ep driving. All the way west like Lewis and Clark.”

  “But why?”

  “Well, the rumor was he’d been having an affair. Maybe he got found out. Maybe he took off before he got found out. His wife was pregnant at the time. And there’d been some kind of falling out with his partner.”

  “His partner?”

  “He and Jackson Blum owned Blum’s Sporting Goods in those days. Maybe Blum bought him out. Or forced him out.”

  “Or killed him.”

  “Well, that may look like a possibility now, but back then it would have seemed a little far-fetched. We hadn’t had a capital murder case on the island in, oh, more than a decade. Things were quiet.”

  “So…he disappeared and no action was taken?”

  “Whoa, down, boy! We took action. There was an island-wide search that weekend, must have been hundred and fifty people walking the moors till all hours. Funny thing—Pat Folger was out there, pacing out the moors east of the dump. But it took him twenty years to dig up the skeleton. Yeah, I heard all about it. I still have some friends on the force.”

  I didn’t like leaks, but I could hardly complain about some old-timer, probably Paul Quimby, talking things over with his ex-boss. I finished my coffee, set the mug aside. “So reopen the case with me. It’s a murder now. Who are your suspects?”

  “Hmmmm…well, there’s the jealous wife. She’d be on top of the list. That Anna Coddington was a tough customer. Fought off a burglar with a fireplace andiron one time. He dialed 911! The poor guy couldn’t wait to get into a jail cell where it was safe! What a dame. She got the Blums into the Yacht Club, you know. All she had to do was hint at it and the membership committee jumped. Hell, she was the committee. But I think she wound up regretting it. Some scalloper was living on his boat one of those summers, with a mooring near the club. Lots of loud music, pot smoke, party noise. Plus the skiff was an eyesore. Then it sank one night. Twenty-two caliber bullet hole just below the waterline. Anna was out in that Boston Whaler of hers. Putt-putting out to Coatue, supposedly. No law against that. Anyway, it was August and the harbor was busy that night. No witnesses, never found a gun. And Jimmy Turpin—that was his name…Jimmy had plenty of enemies, poaching peoples’ special spots, dropping his dredges on their tows, crossing lines. We never proved Anna did sink his boat, never even filed charges on her. But everybody knew she could have. You know what I mean? That was one tough broad. I can see her blowing her husband’s brains out, easy.”

  “How did she react to his disappearance?”

  “She was frantic, but she managed to organize the search. She was beating the bushes with the best of them. But then she would, wouldn’t she? If you’ve just shot your husband you don’t tell the world ‘good riddance.’”

  “How about the girlfriend? Do you have any idea who that was?”

  “I have no idea if there even was a girlfriend, Chief. I’m spit-balling here. Playing the odds. Love and money, that’s what it usually comes down to—unless you’re talking about some whack-job serial killer. Love and money.”

  “So Blum’s on your list.”

  “Oh, yeah. I seem to recall the store did very well after Coddington disappeared. Moved to a bigger location—one of those Winthrop properties on Main Street. Coddington hated the Winthrop people. ‘They’re wrecking the island,’ he used to say. And I’d tell him, ‘Someone’s been wrecking this island since Thomas Mayhew sold his stake in the place to the first settlers for thirty pounds and a pair of beaver hats.’ I seem to recall Ted and Jackson Blum had quite a little dustup at 21 Federal, just before Ted vanished. But Blum brushed it off. They fought all the time, so he said, but they always shook hands and worked it out in the end. He was pretty upset himself that Coddington was gone.”

  “So—it just blew over.”

  “Pretty much. With no murder weapon, no witnesses, and no body…”

  “Did you run down the other theory? That he walked away from his life?”

  “As a matter of fact, we did. Not much to check—boats and planes. No one remembered him leaving at the Steamship or the Hy-Line. But we hit paydirt out at the airport. Several guys matching his description flew off that morning—tall, Waspy, well-dressed, impatient. Two of them paid with credit cards—round trips to Boston. One of them paid cash—one-way to Hyannis. Bingo. Elvis has left the building.”

  “Did his ID match up?”

  “This was pre-9/11, Chief. That long-lost idyllic once-upon-a-time when you could just pay cash for a plane ticket and walk on board, no ID required, no questions asked.”

  “But you figured the one-way ticket was him?”

  “Girl behind the desk IDed a photograph. Shot in the paper from the last Daffy Day—him and his wife, posing in front of his tailgate picnic.”

  “The girl was certain?”

  “Guess it shows people don’t pay much attention. Then, again, Ted was a type, you know what I mean? Dime a dozen on the Rock, especially back then. Nantucket reds, blue blazer and all.”

  “Topsiders with no socks.”

  “You got it, washashore. You’re turning into a regular local. Be complaining about the new people next.”

  I had to laugh. “I already am.”

  “Never fails.”

  “I wonder who that other guy at the airport really was.”

  “Probably just some big shot doing his Christmas shopping. Took the boat back. Most likely.”

  “Or he really was someone running away from home.”

  “Nah, he’d have been missed. Small island.”

  “Okay, thanks, Ted. I have my new call list.”

  “Sure, no problem. Just keep me in the loop, Chief. I kind of miss the loop out here.”

  I took a shot. “Paul Quimby a little soft on the details?”

  He laughed—bull’s-eye. “Paul’s a little soft, period.”

  “He’s a plodder, but he gets the job done.”

  “Always was. Always did.”

  I disconnected and sat back, contemplating another cup of coffee. But I was already too wired. I needed to move. Blum hadn’t returned Haden’s calls, but that was just as well. I wanted to surprise him, anyway. I had some questions for his clerk, Arnold Sprockett, too—if he was still wearing a New York Giants hoodie.

  It was definitely time for an ambush. But that would have to wait. First, I needed to pick my kids up from school.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Boys and Toys

  By the time I got to NHS, I was ready to make my move. Monica Terwilliger had been as good as her word, and the news was better: Hector’s fingerprints on the football matched both the set on the test paper and the ones on the box of chocolates from Caroline’s mystery suitor.

  I caught the kid as he was coming out of his last class, and took him to the dining hall, which was empty at that hour before various after-school activities used the space.

  I sat him down at a metal-edged table. “Here’s what I know, Hector. You’re a talented athlete in a tough situation. Money’s short and your family doesn’t exactly feel welcome here. It’s like starting a drive at your own one yard line. I get that. I also know you have a crush on my daughter, and that can’t be easy. Right now she has no idea who sent her those chocolates and I’m not sure she even knows you exist. My son, Tim, likes you, though. He told me you read some Lorca in the original for the class the other day and then three kids signed up to take Spanish class. It should be a required course, as far as I’m concerned. But I pulled your fingerprints off that test answer sheet, so I know you planted it in my son’s locker.”

  He started to speak. I held up a hand to stop him.

  “I also know who you did it for, and I’m pretty sure I know why. So I need you to give me the name. Then we’re done. I won’t rat you out—to Bissell or to my daughter. Or to Dave Prescott. You’re a good kid. You deserve a break. But you
have to help me out here.”

  Hector looked down at the soda puddles and crumbs on the Formica tabletop and I had a moment to notice how much my job had come down to coaxing teenagers to talk to me without ruining their lives. First Mike Stoller, now Hector—and Dave Prescott would be next.

  “If Dave flunked the poetry class they were going to bench him for the first two games next season,” Hector finally told me, eyes still on the leftover lunch mess.

  “Then why take an AP English course?”

  “He thought, you know—read some poems, copy some bullshit from Sparks notes or Wikipedia—done.”

  “Then he met up with Ted Springer.”

  Hector looked up. The smile lit his face like headlights. I thought—you should try those high beams on my daughter. She might notice you after that. “Yeah,” he said, “Mr. Springer’s a badass. A poetry badass. Just like you!”

  “We exist, Hector. A rare species, but not quite extinct. Now get home. I have to talk with your quarterback.”

  I found Dave Prescott hanging out with some friends by his car. One of them was my son’s old nemesis, Jake Sauter. It looked like he’d grown four inches and packed on fifty pounds in the last couple of years. As left tackle Jake had protected Dave from many blitz attacks this season. I was glad to see his natural aggression channeled in a useful direction. His father’s natural aggression was a much different problem, especially since he seemed determined to channel it at me.

  I walked up to the group. “See ya, kids. I have to talk to Dave. Go. Now.”

  They shuffled off, Jake eyeing me as if he was contemplating the relative advantages and disadvantages of an assaulting-a-police-officer felony conviction. Like father, like son.

  “What?” Prescott said when they were out of earshot.

  “Don’t you mean ‘How can I help you, Chief Kennis’?”

  “Right.”

  “Then say it.”

  He rolled his eyes, blew out an exasperated breath. “How can I help you, Chief Kennis?”

  I didn’t answer immediately—I was distracted. I had stepped back, my eye drawn to the asphalt under his car. One more connection—but it would have to wait. “Well, first of all, you can walk with me into Superintendent Bissell’s office right now and admit that you cheated on your AP poetry midterm, and planted the answer sheet in my son’s locker.”