Billingsgate Shoal

by Rick Boyer

  As she went to fetch one of the senior secretaries, I looked around. Wheel-Lock had its own building, all done up nice in fieldstone, rough cast brick and smoked glass. The building was small, and connected to the factory in back. The rough cast brick was a mixture of buff tan and cool gray. The carpeting was a rich chocolate brown with flecks of tan and gray. Abstract oil paintings in bright colors adorned the walls. The place had a rich but muted look. It was not gaudy or glittery, and I thought back to the Kincaid residence at 11 Rudderman's Lane. I had to admit the old boy had excellent taste. I found myself liking him—wishing somehow I could have met him.

  On a low table was a pamphlet describing the Wheel-Lock Corporation and its products. On the wall was a copy of an old blueprint of the basic mechanism of the lock and the U.S. Patent number. Inside the lock housing was a round wheel that resembled a cipher rotor. Somehow this device interacted with a bank of electrical circuitry, then reconnected with a fancy geared mechanism that drove a thick bolt of steel. In a glass display case were some recent models of the locks. They were considerably smaller, the result no doubt of solid-state circuitry. The locks were impressive, with thick case-hardened steel and brass and nickel fittings. I strolled around the lobby and saw photographs of various locks being installed. One was on a bank door in Kansas. Another was at some army base. There was a framed copy of the army government contract next to the picture. Though they obviously came in all shapes and sizes I gathered that the Wheel-Lock was basically a super version of the combination lock. It seemed a better mousetrap, and Walter Kincaid had reaped a fortune from it.

  "Yes, may I help you?" said the prim fortyish lady with wide goggle glasses and a Diane Von Furstenberg dress. I explained my mission, and she seated us in the corner on an L-shaped couch with a massive cultured marble table. Above us was a gigantic Japanese lantern four feet in diameter, a sphere of paper and wire that was elegant in its simplicity. "Now Mr. Adams, you're doing a story on Mr. Kincaid for which newspaper?"

  "Uh, I know you'll think it's corny, but I've named it the Colonial Gazette, if you can believe it."

  She looked at me quizzically. Obviously, I looked increasingly less and less literary to her.

  "I...see..."

  "Excuse me, may I have your name please? I'll mention you in the article."

  "Mmm. Mrs. Haskell. Doris Haskell., It doesn't matter if you mention me or not. Also, the papers have given very thorough coverage to Mr. Kincaid's—"

  "Oh I know, Mrs. Haskell, but I don't want that stuff in the Gazette. The idea is to give a lot of personal background. . .you know, how he founded the company. . .perhaps some of the rough times early on. . . that sort of thing."

  "Oh I can give you a pamphlet that will tell about Wheel-Lock's early days—"

  "I'd appreciate it. But isn't there anything else you can tell me about? Something that's not written down anywhere? I mean you know as well as I do that the really interesting stuff—the personal, human interest stuff—is never 'official' information."

  "If you are asking me to reveal some dirt or gossip about Mr. Kincaid, or some skeleton in his closet, you are out of luck on two counts, Mr. Adams. First of all, there is no information of this kind—at least that I know of, and I have worked here twelve years—Mr. Kincaid was a very upright man. Second, even if I knew of rumors about him I would, for obvious reasons, never divulge them."

  "Oh no, I wouldn't expect you to. I'm not after that kind of scandal-sheet stuff. Tell me, is there anyone you know of who would want to kill Walter Kincaid?"

  She was clearly taken back by the suggestion.

  "What? I cannot imagine anyone who would be less a candidate for murder."

  "So you knew him well?"

  "As well as any of the older staff. You think he's been killed?"

  "Not sure. Do you think he's alive?"

  She sighed a bit and looked down at her hands.

  "No I don't. Mr. Kincaid always kept in close touch with the office even though he was no longer directly involved with the day-to-day operations. He wouldn't have gone off for over a week without telling us. Something's happened to him—I'm sure of it—but don't you quote me! I'll deny ever having said it; the official corporate line is that we're not giving up hope."

  "And you know of nobody who hated Walter Kincaid?"

  "The only man—the only man who ever hated him is dead."

  "And who was that?"

  "He was Jim Schilling, a former vice president of Wheel-Lock. Mr. Kincaid promoted him up the executive ladder from as salesman. He had an incredible amount of energy and he was a terrific salesman. You know, good-looking. .. smooth. He was a real macho type too. Loved to hunt and fish. He was in terrific shape all the time. You know the kind."

  "Uh huh."

  "I think Jim Schilling was jogging ten years before the fad hit, you know?"

  "Yeah. What happened between them then? They were good friends, right?"

  "Oh yes. They were almost like brothers for years. They went fishing together lots at first. Then something—I don't know what it was—happened. Some think Mr. Kincaid began to fear Jim—you know, began to get the feeling that Jim was going to try to take over the company or something. They began to argue about different company policies, advertising campaigns—things like that. Jim started saying Mr. Kincaid was losing touch with the marketing end of the business—that he was too old. Mr. Kincaid found out about it and fired him. It was rumored around here that he regretted the decision almost as soon as he made it. But Mr. Kincaid was pretty stubborn, and wouldn't change his mind. Jim moved out to California right after that, and was killed the following year."

  "How was he killed?"

  "They think he drowned."

  "They think?"

  "Uh huh. You see it was on a hunting trip. Jim went to Alaska to hunt polar bears. No wait. It wasn't polar bears—the another kind."

  "Alaskan brown bear?"

  "Right! Hey how'd you know? Do you hunt?"

  "Just birds occasionally. But I love to study wildlife. So Jim Schilling went to Alaska to hunt the brown bears. And then?"

  "Well—let's see if I can remember, it was almost a year ago—they flew to a certain special place in Alaska in a small plane."

  "The Kenai Peninsula perhaps?"

  "Hey, that's right again! How did you know?"

  "Because the Kenai Peninsula is famous for big bears. The only place more famous is Kodiak Island. So who did he fly there with?"

  "A pilot. A bush pilot—I guess that's the expression, right?"

  "Yes. And the plane crashed?"

  "Oh no. They landed all right and loaded up a boat with their gear, and went poking along the shoreline of the peninsula looking for bear. According to the story, Jim and the guide split up and Jim took the boat alone. They were going to meet at sundown or something, each one looking for bear that they could stalk—is that the right word, stalk?—the next day."

  "He was with the pilot? That's odd. . ."

  "Huh? Oh I don't think so, Mr. Adams. I think the pilot just dropped him off. I think the guide was an Eskimo or something. Anyway sundown came and went, and no Jim. The next day the guide went walking up the coast looking for him, and he found the boat, half sunk, washed up against a fallen tree in the water. No sign of Jim. He looked for the rest of the day—even built a smoke-signal fire and shot his gun and everything. Nothing."

  "Hmmrrm1m. Too bad. Did he have a wife?"

  "Yes. And two kids too."

  "And they never found a trace?"

  "Nothing. And of course even Mr. Kincaid said it would be unlikely that they would ever find the body. You know, with all the bears and wolves and things—"

  "True. They'd make short work of any meat lying around."

  "So that's the end of the only person I can think of who wasn't fond of Mr. Kincaid."

  "Thank you very much, Mrs. Haskell. Oh, where did Mr. Schilling live in California, do you remember?"

  "Yes I do. It wasn't that long ago.
He lived in Newport Beach. When he lived here, he lived in Marblehead. He loved the water just like Mr. Kincaid. He was never far from it. I think he had a cabin cruiser there too, for deep-sea fishing."

  "Ah yes. And he drowned. It's kind of ironic isn't it?"

  She thought a minute, then answered that the more a man was on the water, perhaps the greater the chance, in the long run, of his drowning. I had to admit there was logic to what she said.

  "Well, was there a storm or anything? Any signs of violence?" Something was beginning to tug at the back of my brain and I wasn't sure what it was.

  "No—you mean up on the bear hunt?—no. They think he must have lost his balance and fallen overboard, then hit his head somehow. The shore's very rocky up there I've heard, you know, 'boulder strewn' like it is here."

  "Was any of his gear found? His rifle?"

  "You know, I don't remember."

  "Sure. It was a while ago. Uh, when exactly was it—do you think you could pin it down a bit?"

  She recollected that it was just before the holidays—between Thanksgiving and Christmastime 1978. Since it was now September 1979, that meant Jim Schilling had died about a year ago. I asked Mrs. Haskell if she'd seen any newspaper account of Schilling's disappearance. She replied that she hadn't, that to her knowledge it wasn't even carried in New England papers. And of course since he had been forced out of Wheel-Lock any open talk and speculation about the incident was discouraged—if not absolutely verboten—by Walter Kincaid.

  After another ten minutes of chitchat with Mrs. Haskell, during which time I was presented with a brochure describing the facilities, products, and policies of the Wheel-Lock Corporation, I left.

  After an hour's discussion, Mary and I figured out away to sneak up on Mrs. Walter Kincaid.

  "It's got to be a name she can't remember later and check up on," I said.

  "How about people names—you know, like Smith and Jones?"

  "That's good. That's the right track. Let's think up names that'll be impossible to remember?

  In ten more minutes, we were ready. Mary dialed the number and I listened in on the extension phone.

  Laura Kincaid picked up the phone after three rings. I felt just a tad sneaky doing this, especially after her gracious hospitality and frankness. But there was something gnawing at me I had to find out.

  "Hello?"

  "Hello, Mrs. Kincaid?"

  "Yes. Who's this?"

  "Just take a second, Mrs. Kincaid. Trelawney and Hoopes cleaners calling from Boston—you know the uniform people? Listen we've got your three maid's uniforms here and they've been ready for two weeks now and we're wondering when you can have them picked up or we can deliver them to your house but we've found nobody home so I don't know what—"

  "Who is this?" Laura Kincaid finally managed to break in—but Mary, as planned, rattled right along without even slowing down.

  "Er, hello? Yes, Mrs. Kincaid, the uniform people from Boston and we have your maid's uniforms here—"

  "You're mistaken, I don't have a maid—"

  "Beg pardon. Mrs. Kincaid? Well you must have gotten rid of her, right? Because we've got these three uniforms—you know the black rayon complete with cap just like you always ordered and we—"

  "I'm sorry!" snapped Laura Kincaid irritably. "Now I told you I do not have a maid! I have never had one! Is that clear?"

  "Sorry ma'am, you're not Mrs. Kincaid?"

  "Yes, but I do not—"

  "Mrs. Robert Kincaid, 309 Bullfinch—"

  "No. No, you have the wrong Kincaid. Good-bye!"

  And a quick ring off, almost a slam.

  I went in and told Mary she was perfection. Of course Laura could always look up cleaners, or uniforms, in the Yellow Pages and see there was no Trelawney and Hoopes, but we'd hoped that the name would slip from her mind in the interim or, even more likely, she would assume it was a routine foul-up and pay it no further notice.

  "So no maid, Mary. I thought as much. Then who—pray tell me—was that person who opened the front door while Laura Kincaid and I were yakking on the terrace out back, hmmmm?"

  "A good question, Charlie. It seems to me that the Kincaid household is fairly well secured. Intercoms and all. Exclusive area. It seems they value their property and privacy and go to great lengths to protect both. It certainly was not a casual stroller. I think she has a boyfriend?

  "I agree. It's not a maid. It wouldn't be a lady friend. Why would she give the front door key to a friend? No, it's somebody she's intimate with. Someone she trusts even with the front door key. Yes, a boyfriend. But then why didn't she introduce him to me?"

  "Because maybe it's none of your goddamn business."

  I had to admit Mary had a point.

  "From what you told me earlier, it doesn't seem that her marriage was that hot. Why not have a boyfriend? And now that her husband's dead, why not live with him?"

  I nodded.

  "But then why—since she was open with me about here so-so marriage—wouldn't she tell me about him?"

  "Because maybe it's none of your goddamn business."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I SAT 0N the porch and smoked and thought. I had the strange feeling that every line of questioning and research I undertook had a curious wrinkle in it—a strange bend in the stream that was totally unexpected and hard to explain. "Curiouser and curiouser," as the British are fond of saying. I considered doing a bit of further research on Mr. James Schilling. Something that Mrs. Haskell told me was knocking around in the old gray matter and wouldn't leave. . .

  I thought about it off and on for almost an hour, then decided to go ahead with it, even knowing that it might possibly upset poor Sarah Hart again, just as she might be starting to recover. But she was so perfectly situated in Pasadena. I called her for a chat to see which way the wind was blowing. If she seemed at all upset I wouldn't push it. She was not upset so much as resigned and bitter—even vengeful. I told her what I wanted her to do and she instantly agreed. "Doc, is this what you call a lead?"

  "Probably not, Sarah. I just want to check it out is all. The best paper would be the Los Angeles Times. Schilling died sometime around November or December of 'seventy-eight. If you find anything, would you mind photocopying the article and mailing it to me. If the newspapers are on microfilm you'll have to get assistance from the librarian. . ."

  She agreed and said she'd have it in the mail the next day. Mary and I were due to return to The Breakers on Thursday a evening. It was now past Labor Day, and the Cape would begin to settle down a bit. The traffic on Route 28 would only be terrible, not horrendous. Late September/early October is far and away the best time on Cape Cod. The tourists are (mostly) gone, the water is still warm, the bluefish are beginning to liven up, and the colors of the foliage are beginning to change. So I couldn't wait.

  But on Thursday morning I got a call at the office from my old friend Jim DeGroot, the semiretired real estate developer. He owns Whimsea, a thirty-foot Lyman cruiser that he keeps moored up in Gloucester. He was calling to inform me that the bluefish were rushing the season a bit; people were tying into them off Rockport and Halibut Point. The day before some lucky lass had snared twelve of them.

  "Twelve?" I asked incredulously.

  "Twelve. The paper said it was her first time fishing, ever."

  "Ah. Beginner's luck. I have a patient at three, but it's only to remove stitches from a third molar extraction. I can get out of here before four, and meet you at the marina shortly after five."

  Jim had also invited Tom Costello, a stockbroker friend of his I'd met several times before. The three of us sat up on the flying bridge as we left Cape Ann Marina northward up the Annisquam River and entered Ipswich Bay. Whimsea rocked and swayed beneath us in the big water, and her motion was exaggerated by our high perch. We sipped beer and took in the ocean. The tide was turning—coming in—which would bring the blues with it. The horizon was invisible in the haze, and boats of all sizes dotted the water. The air was co
ol, as it always is on the ocean even in midsummer, but as fall approaches, the cold intensifies, especially in the evening. As we rounded the tip of Cape Ann and began to head south, I hopped down and began to rig the big hooks with squid and mullet. We fished the Rockport breakwater for a while. No luck. Not even a hit. We crawled by trolling, watching lobstermen hauling up their traps. I thought again of the Windhover and, as I sat in the chair looking over the stern at the wake that churned and hissed behind us, told Tom about my visits to the Kincaid home and his corporation. He seemed interested. In between fiddling with his reel and tackle box, he asked me questions relating to Walter Kincaid.

  "I'm kind of interested," he said, because his company, Wheel-Lock, is about to go into receivership."

  I was stunned. "Why" I asked, "when the company even supports a foundation? Besides, I have just been to the headquarters, and it reeks of affluence."

  "Well it's a funny thing, Doc. . . sometimes the companies that appear to be doing best are actually on the skids. Now I take Wheel-Lock. Five years ago, maybe six, it was doing very well. Privately owned. Nice profitability. A lot of Kincaid's business was with the government, supplying them with locks and security systems for military installations, arsenals, armories, bureau offices, and such. But then the contracts ran out—or at least diminished considerably as the Vietnam thing dwindled—and profits shrank. The foundation I know about, but hell, it's tiny. It's just a tax write-off, nothing more. . ."

  "What's going to happen to Wheel-Lock now that the founder and owner is dead?"

  As we talked, we reeled in the lines and switched to Rapala and Rebel plugs, put a strip of squid on the rear treble hooks and let them out again. We had Jim rev up a wee bit so the lipped plugs would wiggle and dance in the wake.

  Tom Costello shrugged his shoulders and gave his Penn reel a few cranks. He sipped his beer and put it down.