Billingsgate Shoal

by Rick Boyer

  "Almost seven weeks ago he left Gloucester Harbor on an expedition. He said he was going to take Windhover to Provincetown for a few days, then on around the router shore, stopping at Chatham before going on to Nantucket and the Vineyard. He called in every three or four nights, either by telephone if he were in port, or by the ship-to-shore radio. When ten days went by with no word, I knew something was wrong and called the Coast Guard. They searched all over the Cape and the Islands for over three weeks. Nothing."

  "I'm sorry. What do you think happened?"

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  "The only thing I can think of is that the Windhover struck a ledge somewhere. Walter spent most of his time around old wrecks, or places where wrecks might be. These were almost always reefs or ledges—places where a boat can get into trouble. I don't think they got lost. . .that'd be impossible with all the loran, radar, and whatnot on board. I think the Windhover went down, either by hitting a ledge or another boat."

  "And you don't think it's possible that your husband, or anyone else for that matter, would deliberately disguise the boat as another in order to disappear, for whatever reason?" '

  Her jaw had set firm, her eyes bugged out a bit at me. She blinked rapidly and turned her head away.

  "No. I think the idea is absurd."

  "Thank you. I guess I'll drop the whole idea then. By the way, who usually went on these expeditions with your husband?"

  There was a momentary pause as she looked at her hands, then her nails. She was thinking of something;

  She looked annoyed; she grabbed her glass and bit at it impatiently.

  "I might as well tell you, Dr. Adams, since you'll find out anyway if you're curious enough—after all, it's hardly a secret—"

  "I don't really want to pry."

  "Oh of course you don't, dear—" She gave me a cute smile that cut clear through me. Underneath the patina of super-rich suburban housewife, Mrs. Walter Kincaid was tough as nails.

  "Jennifer might have been along too. I'm not positively sure, but I'd bet on it."

  "Really? I didn't bring the Globe's account with me and haven't laid eyes on it in several days, but I don't recall a I woman's name mentioned."

  "Girl's name, dear—she was no woman, just a girl. No, you're right. You won't come across an official listing of her a name anywhere, Dr. Adams, because even her mother and father—wherever they are—have no idea of her whereabouts. But as I said, it's certainly no secret that she was Walter's girlfriend."

  "I see. Uhhh. Well. . .and you think she would have been aboard Windhover when she left Gloucester?"

  Laura Kincaid stared steadily at me, as if passing final judgment on the matter. Then she spoke.

  "That's interesting. Because I think the chances are pretty good that she wasn't. The Globe's people are pretty thorough. They pump their sources pretty dry—leave no stone unturned, especially in a dramatic story like this one. I don't think she was aboard when the Windhover left Gloucester. I imagine only Walter was aboard. But she could have joined him somewhere else. Provincetown, Boston, even Rockport or Ipswich Bay. Walter believed in keeping up appearances. He wanted the appearance of propriety if not the real thing. Excuse me—"

  She was interrupted by a beeping sound, of the electronic variety, which emanated from a small box on her cocktail table. A tiny red light was flashing in sync with the beeps. I had noticed the small contraption earlier, but had assumed it was a transistor radio. She turned quickly in the chair and clicked it off.

  "Wait. I think it's the maid. Can you wait here? I'll check—"

  And she hurried into the house. As soon as she disappeared inside I walked over and peered down at the contraption. It was as big as a small cigar box, and had a speaker-microphone screen and a button bar that said "press to talk" underneath it. No doubt this was how she had burbled at me upon my arrival. Under the sensor light that had been blinking I saw the words door open. There was also another light, a big red one the size of a quarter. Under it were the words emergency: system breached. Finally, there were two small yellow indicator lights labeled front door and back door. These were no doubt set off by the doorbell. Someone, had opened the front door however, evidently without ringing. I returned to my chair and waited. The handy gadget was cordless and could be taken anywhere in or about the house. It was an intercom system and burglar alarm all in one. It made sense for a family like the Kincaids. In a trifle, she was back in her chair, explaining that the maid had stopped by to collect a coat she left behind.

  "Now where were we'?"

  "Discussing whether or not the girl was aboard the Windhover."

  "Ah yes, sweet Jennifer. Actually, maybe she is sweet; I never met her. They were always off galavanting over the waves together in search of buried treasure."

  "Buried treasure?"

  "Certainly. Or didn't you know, Doctor? Why that's the real reason for the Windhover. Walter wanted to strike it rich—by uncovering lost pirate gold. Of course it was probably an escapist dream. . .a hobby more than anything, but nevertheless that's what lay behind it all: buried treasure."

  "How did he ever expect to find any treasure around New England?"

  "Oh there"s lots of it. Tons of it—so I'm told."

  "Really? I thought it was all buried down in the Caribbean—"

  "Oh no. Take a walk inside with me and I'll show you Walter's study. On the way I'll tell you how he got bitten by the gold bug."

  We strolled up the flagstones to the back door. The kitchen was what you'd expect: huge, with work island in middle. Ceiling racks dripping with copper pans. Microwave ovens, floor-to-ceiling refrigerator-freezers, walk-in cold storage—the works. The glimpse I was allowed of the house set me reeling. I wasn't offered a tour because Laura was accustomed to her wealth and no longer impressed by it, and assumed others wouldn't be. One can always tell older money by the fact that those who have it wear it graciously, even casually, like an old cashmere sportcoat. We went upstairs and wended our way to the end of the house where a separate wing sprouted from it like an oversized limb. We opened double doors and stepped down into a two-room suite. I realized then we were above the double garage, in the old live-in maid's quarters.

  "I assume that your maid doesn't live in, but shows up several times a week?"

  "What? Oh, yes. Walter took over this set of rooms for his private retreat. During the past eight years, he seldom left it except to eat and work. He even slept here; the next room has a bed and bath."

  The room was paneled in dark walnut, with beams on the ceiling. A magnificent burled oak desk dominated the center of the room, which was lined with built-in bookcases. Every man's dream of the perfect study. What struck me immediately, though, was the nautical air of the place. Ship models in glass cases topped the bookcases. Prints of clipper ships lined the walls. I noticed one that was in my study as well: Montague Dawson's picture of Thermopolae Leaving Foochow. There were charts of Cape Ann, charts of the Cape and the Islands, charts of Boston Harbor. I noticed photographs too. Most of them showed a gray-haired gentleman aboard a boat. Sometimes at the wheel, sometimes hunched over a chart. One showed him in a wetsuit, hair dripping over his forehead, triumphantly holding up a gold coin.

  Laura stopped before this last picture.

  "That's Walter—that was Walter—as you may have guessed. That picture was taken in nineteen seventy-one when he made his first find."

  "What is it, a doubloon?"

  She bent forward, squinting at the picture closely.

  "That or a piece of eight, or something. . .anyway, he found a small cache of them off P-town in 'seventy-one, and from that time on thought about almost nothing else. Except Jennifer and the other beach girls."

  "I take it, Laura, from the tone of your voice and what you've said, that you and Walter weren't particularly close during the last ten years or so."

  "That's putting it mildly, Doctor. I'm being open about it because you'd discover it anyway if you asked enough people."
<
br />   She ambled over to the leather easy chair with an air of resignation and flopped down into it.

  "We weren't enemies you understand. We didn't fight. To fight takes emotion—stress and strain. When the emotion is gone, then there is only a void. A peaceful, blank void. He went his way and I went mine. He went treasure hunting on his boat and I played tennis. He had his friends and I have mine."

  She looked up quickly into my eyes during this last remark. I could read between the lines, and let it pass. It was a clear blueprint, a perfect scenario down to the last detail, of what so often happens during a marriage in the late-middle years, especially when there's adequate money—or even more often when there's too much money; a growing apart. No fights, no divorce. No separation or settlement. Just two roughly parallel lives lived out under the same roof, each with its own concerns, hobbies, and lovers.

  "I see," I said finally. 'And now that Walter is probably dead, will you keep this house?"

  She gave me a shrewd grin.

  "If that's your way of asking me the terms of Walter's will, it's a very clever 0ne."

  I gave a short laugh—a genuine one. That wasn't my intention; I was merely curious. But clearly Laura Kincaid had been questioned a good deal during the past weeks by reporters and police detectives. She was learning to spot the leading question immediately.

  "Let me put it this way, Doctor Adams: Walter left me sitting pretty. He was incredibly successful you know; everything he touched turned to gold. I may keep the house; I may sell it. But whatever happens, life will sweep on as usual for me. This whole thing has left hardly a dent in my life, Doctor, one way or another. I was born rich, married a rich man who got richer, and I will die rich. We had no children. The man I married grew apart from me in recent years, and now appears to be dead. So that just makes it official, I guess, that's all. So here I am, same as always."

  She slapped her hands down on her thighs, as if to say: That's that. She was crying silently. The lady who had everything had nothing. I had seen that so often among the rich. Laura Kincaid certainly wasn't alone, although that could hardly have been a comfort to her as she sat in the plush chair blinking away the tears.

  "I'm sorry," I said, and patted her shoulder.

  "Oh hell!" she cried, jumping up and wiping her eyes.

  "I'm not crying because I'm hurt or because I'm sad, I'm crying because it's so goddamn empty and boring."

  "I know. Listen, you should get away. Take a trip somewhere. What's your favorite country?"

  "Italy."

  "Then go."

  She sighed, and agreed that maybe I was right.

  "Laura, I want to ask you one more question, please. If we for a second assume that your husband's death or disappearance was not accidental, can you tell me if there is anyone who'd want him dead?"

  She thought for thirty or forty seconds—longer than I expected her to—before answering that she didn't think so.

  As we were leaving the study, I noticed a photograph on the wall near the door. I had walked past it upon entering. It was an aerial view of an island. Next to it was a drawing of a cutaway view of what looked like a mine shaft. I squinted at the drawing. At various places along the shaft (which was vertical) were penciled-in remarks: "100 feet, stone tablet with inscription. 120 feet, oaken platform. 150 feet, rock layer," etc.

  "What's this?"

  "That is the great treasure at Oak Island, Nova Scotia."

  "Oh yes, I've heard of it. Isn't the greatest treasure of all time buried there?"

  "Yes, they think so. But so far, they can't get it out. Every year people die trying. Walter was convinced that the Capes held a similar treasure, and he eventually became obsessed with finding it. Why don't you join me for a drink on the porch, and I'll tell you about it."

  I declined the drink but accepted the invitation.

  We sat in the wide screened porch for twenty more minutes. I gazed out over the vast expanse of green. The interior was festooned with lush hanging plants. Laura Kincaid spoke a little more about her husband's obsession with golden pirate treasure;

  "But he never really found it? The big haul?"

  "Nope. He never did. But he sure enjoyed himself looking for it."

  'And you say the Windhover was equipped with all kinds of electronic gear to help him locate it?"

  "Oh God yes. Everything that a yachtsman could buy and install, he did. That boat could find her way in and out of a hurricane probably. That's the reason he selected an old trawler too; he claimed the hull was more seaworthy. And now let me ask you some questions."

  "Fine."

  "What happened to your hand?"

  "A kid hit me with his moped and broke it. One of the reasons I have time on my hands is because of it. Should be OK in a few weeks though."

  "Second question: why did you come here? What do you I think happened to my husband?"

  "Well. I don't know. For a while I suspected he was still alive. But after this visit I'm pretty convinced that your suspicion is true. A boat that strikes a ledge—especially at speed—goes down like a brick. If that happened, he wouldn't have had time to call for help."

  "You mentioned another boat you saw. What was its name?"

  ' 'Penelope.' '

  She sighed a slow, deliberate, and irritable sigh. "I don't know how many draggers there are on Cape Cod or in New England, but there must be quite a few. I'm sure some of them look alike. They all look alike to me. I think it's strange though, that you're so interested."

  "A young man, a friend of the family's, was killed near the boat. I guess I'm a bit more than curious."

  She stared at me, tight lipped, for several seconds. Then she lowered her head and grabbed her hands together.

  "I don't feel well. I'm afraid there's nothing more I can tell you."

  I thanked her and left. I went back out through the tall gates and over to the car.

  Laura Kincaid certainly matched the background Joe had given me. Rich, well bred, and frank, she had given me much more information about Kincaid and the Windhover than I'd had a right to expect. Her explanations laid to rest any doubts I had about the Kincaid family. If there was anything amiss with the boat Penelope, it had nothing to do with Windhover; their similarities were coincidental and considering the basic design of the coastal bay trawler, not even noteworthy. And also, none of the men I had glimpsed aboard the green boat looked even remotely like the man in the study photographs. So much for that.

  I started the engine and checked the side-view mirror. Then the rear-view. There was a car parked about a hundred feet behind me with a pair of big feet sticking out from underneath. I purred down Rudderman's Lane and headed for home. Mary was annoyed that I was late, and said she was getting a wee bit tired of my going around to these widows and comforting them. I mixed her a soothing bourbon and soda and we retired to the porch, where I told her the story of Oak Island that Laura had told me.

  "What do you think's down there?" asked Mary.

  "There are various theories. One: the Holy Grail is buried there. No doubt Billy Graham and Oral Roberts believe this. Two; the treasure of Charlemagne and the Frankish kings is buried there. Who knows? All I know is that New England was a pirate hideout. I never knew that before."

  "Time to eat, Charlie. Flounder fillets with lobster sauce."

  "Oh honey, you should have."

  But during the meal I stopped eating twice.

  "What's wrong?"

  "This goddamn boat thing is like a boomerang. Every time I throw it away it comes back at me again. Take today for instance. Laura Kincaid's explanation for everything made so much sense. I was convinced that following the Kincaid boat was senseless. But now two things are bugging me. They're not big things mind you, but they're enough to keep the old curved stick winging back in my direction—"

  "Well what `things?"

  "One: how many people on Old Stone Mill Road have you ever seen working under their cars on the street?"

  She thought a minu
te.

  "I've never seen anyone working on their cars here."

  "Right. And there are two good reasons why. One: people who live on our road are rich enough to hire mechanics to work on their cars. Two: if by chance some car buff in this neighborhood did want to fiddle with his engine, where would he do it?"

  "In his garage or the driveway."

  "Exactly. And if this road is well-to-do, Rudderman's Lane is two or three times that. Yet today I saw a guy working on his car in the street there. Doesn't make sense. Like so many events and things of the past week, it just doesn't fit."

  "What's the other thing?"

  "Laura Kincaid's maid."

  "Oh it's Laura now is it? My, my, Charlie, you do get acquainted with the women fast don't you?"

  "C'mon. Anyway, the maid opened the door while we were in the back yard. That's a little strange I guess. But then Laura said she was retrieving a coat. A coat? It's late summer. Why would a maid leave an overcoat, much less want one, now?"

  "Who knows? Eat your fish."

  So I returned to the meal and had thrown away the damn worry stick again when the phone rang. It was Joe:

  "You know that name you asked me to check on? Wallace Kinchloe?"

  "Yeah."

  "Uh, born in Danbury, Connecticut. . . lived in Cohasset?"

  "Right. Ah, so you found him. Does he own a boat?"

  "Uh, couldn't find that out. . ."

  "Oh. Well where can I reach him then?"

  "Can't"

  "Well why not?"

  "Because he's dead. He died in Boise, Idaho, a year ago."

  "Oh," I said, and watched the damn stick turn and come back, flickering bigger and bigger.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NEXT DAY I went to visit the Wheel-Lock Corporation in Melrose. It was unseasonably cool so I went dressed with turtleneck, khaki pants, old Harris tweed herringbone sportcoat with leather patches on the elbows, an Irish tweed hat, and rough-out Wallabee shoes. I was smoking a Barling pipe. I was so goddamn literary I looked like I just walked off a dust jacket. I went in and told the receptionist I was starting a small biweekly rag in Concord, and for the first issue wanted to sink my teeth into a really "super" human interest story.