Billingsgate Shoal

by Rick Boyer

  There was a husky grunt in response from Jack, who said he had no idea she knew so much about it.

  "About 'it'? Look, buster, I'm a nurse; I've been married twenty-five years with two sons. Don't tell me about 'it.' "

  I suggested we call Tony and extend our sympathy and understanding. We did, and he seemed relieved.

  "Thanks, Mom and Dad, And don't worry; it'll never happen again."

  "Of course not," said Mary, "and if they give you medication, don't skip any pills; take them all."

  Mary decided she'd go over to say good-bye to Sarah Hart, who was leaving for Pasadena. Just after she left I dialed the police station and spoke with Lieutenant Disbrow briefly. He said they were treating Allan Hart's death as accidental. Did I have anything to add or suggest? I said not at the present, but that I was looking for the trawler Penelope, and if Disbrow or any of the department saw her, could they let me know?

  "Mr. Adams, we cannot do this unless you file a complaint or give us sufficient justification—"

  "I understand. OK, forget it."

  I called Bill Larson at the shack and told him to keep an eye out. If Penelope reappeared, he was to call me at The Breakers or up in Concord, pronto. This he agreed to. I showed Jack the photographs and told him to do the same if she surfaced in Woods Hole. Then I tried Murdock's boatyard again. The woman answered, her voice slurred and heavy. When I mentioned the word Penelope the line went dead. There was no other avenue to follow. Obviously the only way I was going to make contact with Murdock was to skulk about and sneak up behind him and grab him. I just might do that.

  Meanwhile I had another idea. It was perhaps foolish, but it was something, and the weather looked lousy again. I might as well drive up to Boston.

  "Did you tell me you needed a new sportcoat?" I asked Jack.

  "Uh huh."

  "Come up to Boston with me. We'll leave a note for Mom. I'll take you to Louis's; they've got Harris tweed coats on sale."

  "You wanna go now?"

  "Yes. The sale ends soon. Besides that, I want to go to Post Office Square. I want to peek inside a post office box. Let's get moving."

  We spun out of the gravel drive as it started to drizzle. I uncorked the vacuum bottle and poured coffee for both of us. When we got into the city we parked in the underground below the Boston Common. At Louis's Jack bought a steelgray jacket flecked with blue and black. Having been thus bribed he was sent on two errands for me while I walked over to the post office. One errand was to buy some pipe tobacco at Ehrlich's. The other was to visit the Kirstein Business Library just around the comer and find out all he could about Walter Kincaid's Wheel-Lock Corporation;

  Nothing in downtown Boston is far away; you can walk across all of it in twenty minutes. In less than ten I was inside the post office, my eyes scanning the ranks of postal boxes. Gee, there were lots and lots of them. Finally, I located 2319, and enjoyed the first piece of good luck I'd had. It was a lower box, barely three feet from the floor. I dropped to one knee and peeked inside. Past the gilded decals of big numbers I could see several envelopes. The one on top was dark navy blue with a white border. The name on the label said Wallace Kinchloe. Well, he wasn't lying about the PO box anyway. The return address on the envelope was interesting though: Queen's Beach Condominiums, Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas. I took out pad and pen and wrote it down.

  There were several other envelopes under this one, including what appeared to be a magazine wrapped in brown paper near the bottom. A New Yorker? No, not quite the same. Then I noticed that the second envelope from the top, the one directly beneath the blue one, had its upper edge peeking out. All._I could read was the top line of the return address: A. J. Liebnitz and Sons, Ltd. Where it came from I couldn't tell. But I could tell this: the envelope was certainly classy looking. The paper was the thick parchment type with lots of little fibers in it, sort of like the kind in U.S. dollar bills. Also, the name A. J. Liebnitz was embossed as well as printed. It was obviously not your standard junk mail, the kind telling you that Finast has weiners on sale for 79¢ a pack. I wrote down the name A. J. Liebnitz and replaced pad and pen.

  Finally, I took note of the date on the postmark on the letter from the Virgin Islands. August 12. Almost a month ago. Wherever Wallace Kinchloe was, he hadn't visited his mail box in quite some time. And the letter on top was the most recent one too. How long had the ones at the bottom of the heap been lying there?

  At three o'clock exactly I met Jack at Brookstone's, as arranged. We looked at the fine woodworking and gardening tools from England and Germany, and I bought a big hurricane lamp with a walnut base and big crystal chimney for the porch at the cottage. Mary would love it. Less than two hours later I was sitting in the sauna bath turning over the events and discoveries of the past week. One thing kept rising uppermost in my thoughts: whether Allan's death was accidental or not, it was beginning to look more and more suspicious. This only increased my desire to find Penelope and her captain. And that boat was proving to be, at each tum of the path, more and more elusive and mysterious.

  * * *

  Later in the week I kept my promise to Mary. After doing two hours of paperwork in the office I walked two doors down the corridor and entered Moe Abramson's office.

  Soon I was reclining in a two-thousand-dollar belting leather Eames chair, watching the thirty-gallon aquarium. Two cardinal tetras chased each other from territory to territory. Small iridescent schools of neon tetras and zebra dianos winked about under the fluorescent light. A Mozart concerto hummed and danced in the background. Moe's office was plush indeed. Sitting there, one would never guess that he resided in an ancient Airstream motor home in Walden Breezes Trailer Park. In short, most patients assume that psychiatrist Morris Abramson is sane. If fact he's a nut. He gives almost every penny he makes to one charitable organization or another. He keeps trying to save the world. The last guy who did that got nailed up to two pieces of wood.

  He glared up at me.

  "So you're feeling better?"

  "Much," I answered, noticing a slimy, eellike creature emerge from under a conch shell and slither along the sand on the bottom of the tank. "What the hell is that?"

  He smiled at the creature. It had no eyes and feathery whiskers around its sucking mouth.

  "That's Ruth, my loach."

  "Well, Ruth's got a bad case of the uglies—"

  "Look, Doc, it relaxes the patients. Gets their minds off themselves just a bit. They find they're so busy staring at the tank they open up more—tell me things they wouldn't ordinarily."

  "You should keep a vomit bag taped to the side of the glass for people who have the misfortune to look at that thing too long. It's worse looking than a sand worm."

  The slender, bearded man advanced a pawn on the board that sat on the desk made of solid teak with brushed chrome trim.

  "Your move, Doc. So you're happier. Ah, you feel better about your job."

  "Wrong. As you can see by the damaged arm I'm not currently practicing. Maybe that's why I feel better about it. I've been spending my time tracking down a boat and a man. Both are elusive. Of course it's. probably nothing except my overactive imagination and sense of guilt."

  Moe sat up straight in his chair and arched his eyebrows at me behind his wire-rims. He stroked the beard.

  "But I'll tell you one thing Moe: it's not boring."

  "So tell me. . ."

  "How much will it cost?"

  "Plenty."

  "Who are you giving it to?"

  "The Hadley School for the Blind and the Kidney Foundation."

  "Who do you know who's blind?"

  "Do I have to personally know someone who's blind to help? Someone's got to do it. Why not me?" .

  "OK," I said, and cleared my throat to begin. Ruth sliggered over to the edge of the tank and smushed her prehistoric snout up against the glass nearest me as if she, too, couldn't wait to hear.

  "Cute isn't she? Kind of grows on you, like a wart," said Moe. "So begin already;
I haven't got all day!"

  CHAPTER SIX

  MARY'S BROTHER, Joe Brindelli—Detective Lieutenant Joe Brindelli—appeared at the Concord domicile promptly at nine-thirty two days later. He joined us for after-breakfast coffee.

  "Well? Anything?"

  "I checked on Walter Kincaid, his wife Laura Armstrong Kincaid, and the Kincaid Foundation?

  "What foundation?"

  "The Kincaid Foundation is a small one that was founded to finance the exploration of various marine archaeological sites for the purpose of recovering quote 'maritime relics of historical and artistic significance for the museums of New England' unquote."

  "Sounds like a front to finance his private yacht, the Windhover."

  "Maybe. Certainly he used the foundation and its tax-free money to finance his trips. And certainly again, we can assumes that each and every time he stepped aboard the converted trawler it wasn't all for business. But I did hear from more than one source that he contributed heavily to many of the local museums, most especially the Peabody Museum in Salem and the whaling museum in New Bedford."

  "What were these marine relics?"

  "You know—parts of old sailing ships, pottery shards, old whiskey bottles, coins, cutlasses, cannons—"

  "And he gave it all to the museums?"

  "No way of telling that, is there? I wouldn't be surprised if he kept a few of the better pieces for his own private collection."

  "Jack did a little research on the Wheel-Lock Corporation. They make some kind of rotary lock that is partly mechanical and partly electronic. These are very top-quality, high-ticket items and are mostly used to guard important things like banks, annories, research facilities, and so on. Kincaid patented the basic mechanism of the first lock aback in 'fifty-seven."

  Joe sipped his coffee, listening. Then he added:

  "Kincaid's a New England boy, or was MIT grad, born in Woburn sixty-two years ago. Hitch in the navy during the war. Married Laura Armstrong in the early forties. No children. Good credit rating—as you might expect—no dirt. Clean. The wife is from a rich family in England, though she was raised here. The Armstrongs immigrated here when she was a kid. Apparently they owned some kind of tile or ceramic factory over there and her mother sold it out after the father died. She's also clean as a whistle. I tell you, Doc, if it's dirt you're after concerning the Kincaids, there doesn't seem to be much of it. If there is—or was—any bad business with them it's an affair of the heart not of the wallet."

  I sat and thought a bit.

  "Did you get the number?"

  "Uh huh, but only because I'm a cop. I don't want you climbing all over her and—"

  "No. Don't worry. I'm just wondering how best to approach this thing—"

  "I'll give you the number if you promise me you'll explain clearly and quickly to her what's on your mind, and not keep bugging her if she declines to meet you."

  "Done. Thanks. Oh, and there's another name for you to check out."

  * * *

  "Mrs. Kincaid?"

  "Who is this? How did you get my number?"

  I explained the situation and told her I thought there might be a faint possibility that her husband was not dead. There was a stony silence at the other end.

  "Mrs. Kincaid?"

  "I heard you. Now what is this? My. husband. My late husband, has been missing now for almost two months. It's been hard enough as it is without people claiming they can find him."

  "Yes I know. I'm sorry. It's just that I think there's a remote possibility that your husband's boat, the Windhover is still around in a different guise."

  Long silence.

  "Mrs. Kincaid? Mrs. Ki—"

  "What did you say your name was?"

  "I am Doctor Charles Adams."

  "And you're a doctor?"

  "Yes."

  "And how did you happen—look, maybe you could come out—just for a few minutes."

  I received instructions from her on how to reach the place and departed.

  It took me almost an hour to find it. It was on a semiprivate road called Rudderman's Lane and was surrounded by a high whitewashed wall. The house and grounds had the aura of formal French elegance: gravel drive with large turnaround that lead to the double garage attached to the house, which had high, steeply sloping slate roofs over tall fan windows. The walls were cut stone with quions and timbers where applicable. Norman French—half a million dollars, perhaps more. Old Man Kincaid had done all right with his lock company, that was for sure.

  I got out and walked across the gravel. My footsteps seemed to intrude on the silence as if this were more noise than the place had had in years . . . maybe decades. You can count on a direct correlation between the wealth of a neighborhood and the degree of silence it has. Silence and privacy. If the big wrought iron gates were shut and padlocked, nobody on the outside would ever hope to have the faintest idea of what went on inside number 11 Rudderman's Lane.

  I pushed the button at the front door—I had to hunt for it amongst all the ivy—and heard a distant peal of chimes with the same timbre and resonance as the ones at Westminster Abbey. Nothing for a while, then I heard the electronic pop-pop of an intercom, and noticed the small speaker cleverly hiding in the leaves.

  "Who is it p1ease?" Pop!

  The voice, a woman's, sounded as if it were coming from inside an oil drum.

  "It's Dr. Adams, here to speak with Mrs. Kincaid," I said.

  Pop! -"I'm around in back on the terrace; come on around through the yard." Pop!

  I trudged around, walking on a creeping bent lawn, no doubt fastidiously kept up by a dozen or so Latin immigrants. I passed rose gardens, bronze statuettes, a fountain, a small Haiku garden with an enchanting teahouse. Besides money, the Kincaids had taste. The only thing that marred an otherwise flawless lawn was the ugly scar of dirt and newly sprouted grass at the side of the house where a septic tank had been repaired.

  "Dr. Adams?"

  I saw an attractive woman, late forties I would guess, rise off at redwood lounger and stroll toward me over the flagstones. The terrace was surrounded by a tightly trimmed hedge, and I entered through a trellis-topped gap in it to shake her hand. She was silver-haired, dressed in slacks and cotton-canvas blouse, with a nautical type rope belt and navy blue Topsiders. Rich casual. She'd been doing some gardening, she told me, and I could see the trowels and flats laid out on the side of the terrace.

  "You have a lovely house here, Mrs. Kincaid. I see you have the same problem here we do in Concord. A new leaching field?"

  She looked over in the direction of the recent excavation.

  "No. Here in Manchester we have sewerage systems. Walter—my husband—had that big oil tank put in early in the summer. It's huge. I think it holds 5000 gallons or something. He always knew how to get the most for his money. Also, you may call me Laura, Doctor. You seem to be quite a gentleman compared to the police and reporters I've been shunning these past few weeks. I'm going in to get some iced tea. Do you want some?"

  She came back with the tea and we sat down. She was a good looking woman, fit and trim with a pretty tan face that was kept moisturized and tight by beauty treatments and preparations available to women with money. Then, as she turned her head away from me to set her drink down, I saw the tiny pale pink dot under her jaw. I saw it only because she tilted her head up and around, and because her deep tan made the minute scar all the more visible. Mostly, I saw it because I make my living with jaws and faces, and what's inside them. Face lift. Jaw tuck. Nice job. Probably eight to ten grand worth of a master surgeon's time.

  She turned to me and ran her palms down her thighs, stretching out her arms idly. Underneath her cordiality was a regal coolness, an air of impatience and condescension that I found annoying. However, I tried to see the situation from her perspective, and immediately I understood.

  "Now Doctor, you say that you may be of some help in locating my husband. . .what exactly do you mean by that? I mean, it's pretty well assumed that Walt
er is dead."

  "First of all, Mrs. Kincaid—uh, Laura—you should understand that my thoughts are pure conjecture. This could very well be a fool's errand; you can discount all of what I'm going to say. The only reason I'm curious is because of the death of a young man, which I feel partially responsible for."

  She squirmed slightly on the lounge and squinted at me.

  "Okay. A week ago I saw a boat grounded on Billingsgate Shoal, just off my cottage in North Eastham. It was a green trawler named Penelope, which stopped briefly in Wellfleet Harbor after the tide rose, and has not been seen since. Now what is odd is the fact that the boat I saw was quite similar to your husband's boat, the Windhover. Moreover, there is little previous history of the boat I saw. . .the Penelope."

  She grabbed her glass, and I could see her hand was shaking. It was also covered with age spots. I placed her age closer to fifty-five.

  "What are you trying to say, and what are you implying?"

  "I don't know—that's the point I guess. What does it all mean?"

  She let out a slow sigh and looked at the sky with a resigned expression.

  "Doctor Adams, I don't know what you're trying to do to me, but this past month has been hard enough—"

  "I'm sorry."

  "—without your raising false hopes about Walter's survival. Let me tell you quickly what happened. Then, when I've explained it, I trust that will be the end of the matter, OK?"

  I nodded.

  "My husband has been interested in marine archaeology for some time. . .say, the past eight years or so. He retired early from daily work at Kincaid Industries, although he was still chairman of the board and chief executive officer of Wheel-Lock. The daily tending of the business is in the hands of the current president. Anyway, he spent more and more time searching for marine relics along the New England coast. He bought an old coastal trawler and had it completely refitted with all kinds of electronic metal detecting equipment. Since he gave most of what he found to museums and the National Trust for Historic Preservation, he was able to finance the entire operation through a nonprofit foundation designed especially for this pastime. The foundation, and the searches, were entirely legitimate, of that you may be sure." She slapped her hands down on her knees to emphasize the point. I nodded again, and sipped the tea.