Cape Cod

by William Martin

  “Bigelow!” screamed Serenity, finding the last reservoir of fury. “I damn you. I damn you Solomon Bigelow. I go to my grave with the knowledge of your comeuppance.”

  “Take your own comeuppance!”

  He pulled her whale oil lamps from the table and smashed them, one on the floor, the other against the wall. The flames bit hungrily into the dried old boards. “If comeuppance is here, it’ll soon be gone.”

  Outside, young Sam woke face down in the cold sand. He heard his grandmother’s wail. Then he saw her riding out of her own cottage like some figure of myth, half human, half-feathered, borne aloft by a group of hooded retainers.

  “I damn you all! I damn Loyalists and Tories and all… all… all!”

  Flames began to jump in the house, and a hooded figure appeared in the doorway, screaming like a scavenging gull, “Comeuppance! Take the comeuppance you have threatened so long!”

  Then a living fireball burst from the door—Lucinda the Tenth, her back in flames, streaking across the dune and disappearing into the sea….

  The northwest wind that fed the flames drove the Tory boat back across the bay. By the time the other islanders reached the house, it was a tower of fire that lit the sky from Provincetown to Plymouth.

  They found Sam first, and he led them to his grandmother. She lay face down in the rising tide that each day carried a little more sand away from Billingsgate Island. Nature changed the face of the world over centuries. Men and women had much less time. Serenity had used hers well.

  And young Sam Hilyard resolved that someone would pay.

  CHAPTER 21

  July 13

  Billingsgate Shoals

  “She must have died near here,” said Geoff.

  “Tarred her and feathered her and set fire to her cat.” In the bow seat, George applied zinc oxide to his nose. “This is going to be fun.”

  “Fun… yeah,” said Jimmy.

  Geoff ran the boat right into the heat waves rising from the remains of Billingsgate Island. Twice a day, this sandbar rose from the sea, drawing clam diggers, scavengers, gulls that came to pick over the dogfish carcasses, and guys like George, with their metal detectors.

  “C’mon,” Jimmy was sitting in one of the fighting chairs, stripped to the waist, ready for a fight. “This is our day to fish. Every boat on Wellfleet Harbor is up by the eight-can.”

  “We’re fishing for history.” George jumped into ankle-deep sand and then took something that looked like a minesweeper off the bow.

  “Playing treasure hunt on a ghost island won’t bring back Rake Hilyard,” said Jimmy.

  “Maybe Serenity’s death holds the key to Rake’s,” answered Geoff.

  “The key to Rake’s death was the one in his ignition. A ninety-year-old man shouldn’t have been on Suicide Six on a foggy night.”

  “The cops claim he swerved to avoid hitting an animal.” Geoff put on his sunglasses and jumped down. “He wouldn’t have swerved to avoid hitting me.”

  Jimmy shook his head and snapped a pencil-popper onto his steel leader.

  “She’s here,” said George. He had the look he got whenever he saw great art or a great menu in a restaurant window.

  “You won’t find her with a metal detector, George.”

  “Humor me, Geoff. The broadsides say she knew about a book of history. That’s why Rake wanted you to read them.”

  It had been sixty years since Billingsgate had been above water at high tide. The sea had spread the island south and east into an enormous mutton-chop of a shoal, leaving piles of red-brick rubble scattered across the sand like the gravestones of a vanished settlement.

  “They call this Cape Cod’s Atlantis.”

  “Except this was no myth.” Geoff felt almost reverent, in spite of the ridiculous image that George cut in white ducks, Panama, and metal detector.

  “Her spirit’s here.”

  “We aren’t going to find it with that thing.”

  “I once found a piece of eight washed in from the Whydah. Serenity might have buried the log in some kind of metal box sealed with wax. If she buried it four or five feet down, you’d find it right at the surface now.” George’s sweeper made a little beep. He dug with his toe and turned up a pop top.

  Geoff stood in the center of the shoal and pivoted slowly to absorb the view that Serenity would have seen—the bluffs of Great Island, Wellfleet Harbor, the Eastham shoreline running south, the blue bay glimmering in the sun. The contours had not changed since she had been here. He could almost feel her.

  And just as she had been stalked by Tories, it seemed they were being stalked by a big Chris-Craft anchored down at the point. One guy was fishing, another was looking north through a pair of binoculars. He could have been looking at anything, but since Rake’s death, Geoff had begun to suspect everything.

  Now the sound of the big Chris-Craft engine came thrumming across the shoal, sending Geoff back to his boat and his binoculars.

  “Looking for more connections?” Jimmy was casting into a few feet of water.

  “Those guys in the Chris-Craft connected with us about ten minutes after we left Pamet. They’ve been around us ever since.”

  “Jeez,” said Jimmy, “maybe they’re following us.”

  “We know why we’re here. Why would anybody else be, when all the fish are hitting at the eight-can?” Geoff pushed his sunglasses up on his head and focused on the transom, but the high-sun shadow and the big wake rolling out made it impossible to read. “Did they catch anything?”

  “The one with the rod just pulled in three blues on three casts.”

  Geoff lowered the binoculars. “Only one guy fishes, and as soon as he starts to get some action, they leave?”

  Jimmy shook his head, as though losing patience with all this. “So maybe they have to get to work.”

  “Who worries about work when the blues are hitting?”

  “So go after ’em.”

  Geoff checked the depth of the water. “We won’t lift off for another ten minutes.”

  George came up to the boat with the metal detector slung over his shoulder. “Maybe they thought we made ’em.”

  “Made ’em.” Jimmy laughed and cast his plug over a tide rip. “You sound like an amateur. You both do. Amateur troublemakers and intriguers. Stick to your own jobs.”

  There should have been an argument over that, but the first bluefish of the summer hit Jimmy’s plug and tore off a hundred yards of line. And boys would be boys when the bluefish hit. Geoff grabbed the gaff. George grabbed another rod.

  The fish burst from the water in a perfect arc of blue muscle. It seemed to hang in midair until it heard the shouts of excitement echoing across the flats. Then it shook itself violently, slammed into the water, and began to run.

  There was a feeding frenzy coming. It had begun down near the tip of the shoal, where the mystery boat had been. Now it was working its way north. Thousands of hungry bluefish, churning up the water, chopping up the baitfish, biting at anything from Castmasters to slow swimmers to the foil gum wrappers that the man with the binoculars had left floating on the water.

  ii.

  “Hi, Janice. Phyllis Baxter here.” Janice scribbled the name on the notepad in front of her. Maybe if she saw the words, she could remember the face.

  “How’re you, Jan?”

  Someone should tell her she talked too loud on the phone. Of course, not many people were calling the offices of Bigelow Development these days, so any voice was welcome.

  “I’m fine.” Janice sketched a round face, short hair, a big ear-to-ear smile, and said, “Glad to be back.”

  “I always say the good ones can smell a turnaround. They get in when everyone else is getting out.”

  Jewelry. Janice drew a pair of orange earrings the size of honey-dipped doughnuts. “I’m in for better or worse.”

  “Don’t worry, dearie. It can’t get any worse.” After Phyllis complimented someone, she reminded them she had been doing this for thirty ye
ars. She was no blue-haired dabbler augmenting her Social Security, no mommy showing houses when the kids were off at school—and by inference most of the other female brokers were. Phyllis knew what was really happening in the wild world of Cape Cod real estate.

  And what was really happening this week: “A divorced mother of two—who wore sunglasses on a cloudy day, which may mean she’s a battered wife—was sent by a friend. She’s moving from New York to get away from her ex-husband, which definitely means she’s battered. She’s got a buck and a quarter to spend—”

  Janice wrote $125,000 on her notepad and shifted the telephone to the other ear.

  “—but a sale’s a sale. She saw this house in Eastham. Your listing, rotten location, right on Route Six, rotten location, rotten little rat-hole house. But if she likes it, we call it Convenience with Cape Cod Charm. I suppose anything’s better than New York.”

  Janice drew a big apple. Inside it she wrote $7,500, standard commission on $125,000. Then she wrote $3,750, the share her office would receive in a co-brokering arrangement. Then she wrote $1,875, her share of the office share.

  “Could you show it?” asked Phyllis Baxter.

  Through the window, Janice saw her husband hefting a leaky trash bag out of the back of his Chevy.

  She flipped through her book and found the listing. “I’ll meet you there in half an hour. Gotta run…. Geoffrey, I hope you’re planning to clean the fish blood off the floor.”

  Geoff stuck his head into her office. “Some welcome for the hunter-gatherer.”

  She heard his footsteps thump down the hallway to the little kitchenette at the end. The bag of fish hit the sink, and the refrigerator door popped open.

  From his office, Doug’s voice echoed off polished hard wood floors and white-painted walls, “Just what I want—more bluefish.”

  “Did somebody say bluefish?” Dickerson came down from his upstairs office. “I’ll take two. Cook ’em on the grill with a little mayonnaise.”

  Geoff came back to the front office—three desks, only one occupied on a slow day in a slower market. “We hit a blitz up at Billingsgate.”

  Doug came through the French doors that separated his office from the agents’, the old dining room from the parlor. “How you holdin’ up, Geoff?”

  “Life goes on.”

  Dickerson put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Two deaths in a week… tough.”

  “I’m trying to keep it in perspective.”

  Did they mean any of this? Geoff always handed out bluefish to everyone after a blitz, but that wasn’t why he was here. Janice could see it in his eyes. Now that Rake was dead, he controlled more land. He could rewrite the deal to get better terms, or he could kill it completely. She didn’t know what he planned, and she didn’t think he knew either… until now.

  On her notepad, she drew the island once more. Then her father said “Soooo,” which usually meant he was going to ask a blunt question. She raised her pen from the page.

  “Soooo, Janice tells me that before the… sad events of the last week or so, you’d done some sketches.”

  Doug sat on the edge of a desk and began to swing his leg. “We can’t tell you how pleased that makes us.”

  “Keep your lime green pants on,” said Geoff.

  “We all have to keep our pants on,” said Dickerson. “We don’t clear probate for six months. But if we get our ducks in a row—”

  “I’m not worrying about ducks.”

  Doug’s leg stopped swinging. Dickerson ran his hand through his chin whiskers.

  “Rake showed me some things the night he was killed,” Geoff said.

  “Killed?” said Doug.

  “I think he was run off the road.”

  Janice scratched out her sketch of the island. This was worse than she thought. “Who killed him, Geoff?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the people who followed us in a boat this morning.”

  “And who were they, Geoff?”

  “Fishermen.” Doug laughed. “They saw you in your Grady White and figured you knew where the fish were.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Geoff.

  And Dickerson Bigelow blew up, lost it entirely. Once, he would have stayed and argued or cajoled or played the bullying businessman until he’d brought Geoff around. But he was getting old. And he was no longer in control. The best he could do was sputter, “Janice, you married a damn fool,” and stomp up the stairs.

  A door slammed, then popped open again. “And tell him to keep his damn bluefish!” Slam. The whole house shook.

  “Dad’s offended,” said Janice.

  “If Geoff’s accusing us, I’m offended, too,” said Doug.

  “I’m not accusing, I’m speculating.”

  Doug picked up the phone. “So speculate with the state police. According to them, everything about the accident was consistent with the maneuver to avoid an animal—speed, skid, direction of travel. No evidence of foul play.”

  “Have they speculated on the log of the Mayflower?” asked Geoff.

  “A Rake Hilyard hoax.”

  “Now Rake’s dead and I inherit half of his property—”

  “And the hoax,” muttered Janice.

  “And now,” added Douglas, “you think you owe it to him to do what he would have done with his property, even if that is exactly nothing?”

  Geoff looked at Janice. “Your brother understands better than you do.”

  Doug came over to Geoff. “We need to let the Conservation Commission walk Jack’s Island next week. We can’t even think of the next step until they’ve marked off the wetlands and we’ve settled those arguments.”

  “I won’t stop you, Doug. But don’t be too broken up if they stop you.”

  Janice couldn’t take all this civility any longer. She shoved a few papers into her purse and took her MLS book. “My father’s right. I married a damn fool. I have an appointment.”

  iii.

  “Hi, Jan. It’s so good to see you again.”

  This must be Phyllis Baxter. Janice couldn’t quite remember. But there were the earrings, bigger than doughnuts, more like inner tubes. And the teeth—big, square horse teeth set in a mouth that was always open. She remembered now.

  Phyllis introduced her client. Janice shook the young woman’s hand—very soft, very white. Jet black hair that made her skin look even whiter, and a white raincoat, though it was a sunny afternoon. Her height might have been impressive if not for the tall-girl slouch and the twitchy way about her. Like a battered wife.

  It was none of Janice’s business. Show her the house. If she liked it, sell her the house, then pity her because she couldn’t find anything better.

  They exchanged a few pleasantries—very few, because they couldn’t be heard above the traffic on Route 6. Then they went inside.

  “Isn’t this cozy,” bellowed Phyllis, still competing with the roar of the traffic outside.

  About as cozy as the inside of a stove carton, thought Janice.

  “Is there a fireplace?” asked the woman.

  Janice looked at the listing sheet. “I’m afraid not.”

  Phyllis peered through the little windows above the kitchen sink. “Your kids’ll like the backyard.”

  Janice looked out the windows by the television, at four lanes of traffic. “Just keep them away from the front.”

  Phyllis gave her a scowl. It wasn’t their job to worry about people’s kids, unless the people could afford to give the kids something better. “What are the taxes here?” she asked, trying to keep it going.

  “Four hundred.”

  “Very reasonable.”

  “For this place, robbery,” said Janice.

  Phyllis asked for the listing sheet, as though it might hold the key to the sale. “Well, this is a little bit of history. It says this house was moved from Billingsgate Island. Imagine that.”

  “Half the houses on Cape Cod have been moved,” said Janice, “from Billingsgate, from Monomoy Island, from one side
of a lot to another…. We can find her a nicer house.”

  “We’ll do our best.” Phyllis gave Janice a smile that could have bitten a board nail in half.

  Janice said she could think of a few places in this price range, and she promised to call Phyllis. The young woman thanked Janice for her frankness and made only one stipulation: a fireplace.

  “I’d love to be able to sit with my kids beside a roaring fire. Fires are happy things.”

  Everybody should have a fireplace, thought Janice, and a husband who didn’t hit her… or play the damn fool when the big moment of his life arrived. The more houses they built, the better the chances that this poor woman would get her fireplace.

  iv.

  “Now, what’s this I hear about a metal detector on Billingsgate?”

  “I report what I see.”

  “You can interpret, too, I hope.” John M. Nance tapped a golf ball toward the hole on the putting green in his backyard. It rolled to within an inch of the cup and stopped. “Otherwise, my money is wasted.”

  “The night Clara dies, Rake says he has to find the log. The night Rake dies, he visits Geoff with something. And the day after Rake’s buried, Geoff’s on Billingsgate Shoals with a metal detector.”

  “Do you think the log is buried on Billingsgate?”

  “Maybe.” The bland-looking young man wore a gray Puma warm-up suit with yellow piping. He chewed Juicy Fruit gum and dropped a yellow wrapper onto the putting green.

  Nance was in mid-putt. His putter stopped. He glared at the wrapper.

  The young man began to explain why the log might be on Billingsgate, but Nance’s eyes were on the wrapper, which he studied until the young man picked it up.

  “The log is not on Billingsgate Shoals, Mr. Lambeth. We’ve known that from the beginning.” Nance followed through and missed his putt. “Your initial report said this Geoff Hilyard would go for Bigelow’s deal. Now he’s going after the log. That could kill the deal, though we don’t know how.”

  “So he’s changing his mind.”

  Nance tapped another ball. “This much is certain: if he goes for the log, it would be better if we found it first. If he goes for the deal, we have to find it first.”