Vineyard Stalker

by Philip R. Craig

  “I can’t imagine anyone who’d hire vandals.” She leaned forward. “You seem to be very intent. You must be making good money.”

  “It’s not just the money,” I said, getting up. “It’s personal. I got shot with a stun gun last night. I may have deserved that, but the guys who did it talked about killing me if the money was right. They know who I am and now I want to know who they are before they decide to finish the job.”

  I started for the door, then turned and said, “Can you think of any enemies your cousin might have? This business may not have anything to do with real estate.”

  She shook her head. “He’s the last person in the world to have enemies. They call him the Monk, you know, and some people think he’s a saint. How could anyone hate a saint? You might think that I’m his enemy, but I’m not. I just want him to move so I can sell that piece of land.”

  I went out thinking but not saying that sanctity was no immunity to hate. The fate of holy martyrs was evidence enough of that.

  I glanced at my watch; then, following Carole Cohen’s directions, drove up-island to the site of yet another Chilmark mansion-to-be. It was a huge place overlooking Menemsha Pond with workmen steadily framing walls, pouring cement, and shingling roofs. No wonder simple islanders who wanted a garage repaired or a new dormer built found it so hard to get people to do it; all the island’s carpenters were busy building castles.

  I spotted Roland Nunes’s moped among the workmen’s pickups and Jeeps, parked my truck, and walked into the organized chaos. Nunes was working on a deck that thrust out above Menemsha Pond. It was big enough to hold my whole house and provided a splendid view of the pond and the Elizabeth Islands on the far side of Vineyard Sound.

  I watched him work for a while, taking note of the smooth rhythm of his movements and seeing once again the beauty in anything being done well, whether it is a dancer’s arabesque allongée, a short-order cook flipping eggs for the morning crowd, or Zee making one of her perfect casts off Wasque Point. He worked steadily, wasting no motion or energy, using his air-driven nail gun like a maestro, never missing a beat. Lovely.

  I crossed the unfinished deck and came up behind him. He sensed my presence and turned and smiled.

  “J.W. What brings you here?”

  “Somebody’s going to have a nice view.”

  “Yes. The world is full of them.”

  I showed him the photos. He studied them and shook his head. “I don’t know him. The camouflage looks pretty conventional. Half the Special Forces in the world look like that, so he could be anybody.”

  “You’re sure you don’t recognize him?”

  He handed the picture back. “I’m sure. I think you should let this business go now.”

  “I may do that, but first I’m going to talk with a couple more people.” I told him of my conversation with Sally Oliver.

  “I don’t think that Sally is involved,” he said in his gentle voice.

  “Do you have any enemies?”

  “We have met the enemy and he is us.” He smiled.

  Another Pogo person. “Aside from that,” I said.

  “I had many long ago,” he said. “For the last thirty years I’ve tried to avoid making new ones.”

  “What became of the old ones?”

  He looked down at his hammer. “Most of them are long dead.” He lifted his eyes. “We were warriors then,” he said. “I’m no longer one of those. I’m just a man.”

  “What about the woman who was at your place last night?”

  “I’m not celibate.”

  “Maybe she has a lover who doesn’t like you taking his place.”

  Some sort of light flickered deep in his eyes, but he smiled. “She wears a diamond, but I’ve never asked her whose. She’s full of life and fills me with it, too.”

  You can’t have too much joy. “What’s her name?”

  But he shook his head. “Sorry. When I was young, I was taught that it’s improper for a man to discuss his women friends.”

  It was an inconvenient scruple for me at that moment, but I wasn’t up to contesting it.

  As I walked away I heard the rhythmic sound of his nail gun begin again.

  7

  A widow named Carson owned the big house north of Roland Nunes’s land. The stone wall I’d admired while circumnavigating Nunes’s place also extended across the front of the Carson acres, and as I drove between the granite posts and open gates that stood at the front of the driveway I could see that in fact the wall encircled the whole estate. The widow Carson or her deceased husband was clearly a big fan of stone walls but apparently not of Robert Frost.

  The driveway was made of crushed stone and led to a modern house with a breezeway that linked it to a three-car garage with a small barn at its far end. The combination was some modern architect’s version of the linked buildings you often see on old New England farms, that allowed the farmer to move from his home to his principal workplaces without having to give battle to rain or snow.

  It was a large, white clapboard house, but not in the same league with the mansions that were now going up all over the island, and I wondered if Mrs. Carson wanted Nunes’s land so she could build her own castle and not have to tear down this house to do it. Maybe she was the sentimental type, who cherished the past while moving into the future.

  I parked in front of the breezeway, put on my most honest-looking smile, and tapped on the front door of the house, using the handsome bronze scallop-shell knocker that was centered there. After a bit, the door opened and a white-haired woman looked at me, then swept her gaze down to my feet and back up again.

  “Yes?”

  She was wiping her hands on a towel and was wearing a stained, full-length apron. Under it were old rich-lady clothes that were informal and comfortable but had originally been pricey, so I knew she wasn’t the cleaning woman.

  “My name is Jackson,” I said. “I’d like to speak with Mrs. Carson about a matter that may interest her. It has to do with the property that adjoins hers.” I waved a finger toward Roland Nunes’s land.

  “I’m Babs Carson,” said the woman. “I’m in the middle of something. Will this take long?”

  “I won’t take up much of your time.”

  She thought about it for only a moment, then smiled and said, “Well, a short meeting is usually a good meeting.” She opened the door and stepped back. “Come in, Mr. Jackson, and sit down in there. I’ll get rid of this apron and be right with you.”

  I did as she asked and found myself in a sitting room, facing a lovely antique coffee table. It was a medium-sized room with windows looking out at a rose garden and, on the opposite wall, a fireplace and bookcases alternately holding books and small objects d’art. Over the fireplace was a painting of a much younger Mrs. Carson. She had been a beauty then and she still was. I suspected that she’d been Babs since her boarding school days. I’d never known a poor girl called Babs.

  A few moments later she came in and sat down opposite me.

  “Now, Mr. Jackson, please take the podium.”

  “I gather that you’re a potter.”

  “You gather correctly. My studio is in back of the house. I was working there when you arrived.”

  “Wheel or slab?”

  “Both.”

  “Do you make your own glazes?”

  “Sometimes. Are you an artist yourself?”

  “Not at all, although I’m pretty vain about some of the fishing lures I’ve made.”

  She smiled and I immediately liked her. “You’re a fisherman, then. So was my husband Chris. So am I.”

  “I’m a surfcaster.”

  “Blues or bass or both?”

  “Both, but mostly blues. I don’t like to catch and release and you have to do a lot of that when you’re bass fishing because of the size limit for keepers.”

  She nodded. “I totally agree.” Then she leaned forward a bit and said, “The fact is, though, that when I catch a bass and nobody’s looking I usually
keep it whatever its size because I like to eat what I catch!”

  A woman after my own heart. We looked at one another with satisfaction.

  “One more question before we get down to business,” I said. “Out of curiosity, was your husband related in any way to Kit Carson, the famous scout?”

  She seemed pleased. “As a matter of fact, he was a descendant of the same family. It’s my understanding that his great-grandfather was so happy to be related to old Kit that he named his first son Christopher and that the name has been passed down to first sons ever since. My Chris was number three and our son, if we’d had one, would have been number four. If my husband was alive, he’d be very happy that you asked.” She leaned back in her chair. “But that’s not what you came here to discuss.”

  “No it isn’t. I’m here because your neighbor, Roland Nunes, has been the victim of several attacks of vandalism recently. I’m wondering if you’ve experienced any here at your place.”

  She frowned and shook her head. “None. My husband’s stone wall would make it difficult for a vandal to get in here even if he wanted to, and at night our gate is shut. You no doubt think that Chris had a fortress mentality and in a sense that’s true. He was a great fancier of medieval culture—castles and armor and knights and ladies and that sort of thing—and he always liked the idea of a walled house, so the first thing he did when we got this place was to build that wall you see. What sort of vandalism are you talking about, and why are you involved?”

  I answered her second question first. “His sister asked me to find out who was intruding and why. Last night I stayed near the house with an infrared camera and I got some pictures of the prowler before he ran away. Here’s one of them. Do you recognize him? Try to look through the camouflage on his face.” I handed her the best of my photographs.

  I studied her as she studied the photo, shook her head, and returned the picture. “I don’t recognize the face. Who is he?”

  Her expression had revealed nothing devious to me. “I don’t know yet, but I’ve given my photos to an expert who may be able to get rid of that camouflage and reveal the face underneath. After that I may be able to ID him. If I can do that and if he’s still on the island I may be able to find him, and if I can find him I may be able to get him to tell me who hired him.”

  “There are a lot of mays in your plans, Mr. Jackson. Just what has this vandal done?”

  I told her, including the part where I’d gotten myself shot and had heard the prowlers talking and my suspicions about the cat food.

  “Good heavens,” she said, “that’s pretty extreme stuff, don’t you think? You should go to the police.”

  “I gave my client that same advice, but she doesn’t want the authorities involved because her brother leads a very private life. I believe she sees him as a sort of saint.”

  She gave a short, almost bitter, laugh. “My horny daughter might not agree with you. She spotted him as soon as she got here and is making a mighty effort to add him to her list of conquests. With some success, too, or so she says. Melissa has the ethics of an alley cat, but she’s rarely thrown out of bed.”

  “Why, Mother,” said a silky voice from the door. “How sweet of you to speak of me so nicely.”

  I turned my head and saw a woman coming into the room. I’d seen her before, at Roland Nunes’s house. She was wearing white tennis shoes and socks, white shorts, and one of those pastel green and pink Lilly Pulitzer shirts. She had a large diamond on her left ring finger and a tennis racket in her hand. I guessed she was about my age, which is past the flower of youth, but she was very pretty. She put her racket on a chair and extended a tanned hand.

  “Hi! I’m Melissa Carson, the alley cat. Who are you? One of Babs’s lovers?”

  “I’m afraid not. My name is Jackson.”

  She took my left hand and looked at my wedding ring. “Is this real, or do you just wear it to frustrate us girls?”

  “It’s real.” I looked at the giant diamond on her ring finger. “Is that?”

  “I certainly hope so. My fiancé is in serious trouble if it isn’t. Do you like it?”

  “I like mine better.”

  “How sad for me.”

  Her mother, who had listened to this exchange with a faint smile, now said, “Mr. Jackson is here to ask about vandals, dear. We’ve just met, and I lack your swiftness of attack on new potential prey.” She looked at me. “I actually don’t have or want any lovers, but Melissa is like a cheetah stalking a deer when she meets a new someone she fancies. She’s been that way since she was in school, so we no longer expect her to change. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  “Yes, Mother, and it’s made things much easier for all of us.” Melissa ran her eyes over me rather like a butcher eyes a side of beef. “You’re sure you’re really married, Mr. Jackson? And even if you are, I hope you’re not the faithful-and-true type. They’re so mysterious.”

  “I’m tempted but taken,” I said, feeling a smile on my face. “Would you like to see a picture of my wife and children?”

  “The competition? Of course. Let’s look at the sweet little wifey and the darling kiddies.”

  I dug out my wallet and showed her the photo I carry.

  “Dear me,” said Melissa, “she really is a beauty, and so are the two little ones. The boy looks a lot like you and the girl looks like her. How nice. What’s her name?”

  “Zeolinda. Most people call her Zee.”

  “Tell me, is wifey as good as she looks? In bed, I mean, of course.”

  “Of course that’s what you mean.”

  She heard my unsaid words and sighed. “Ah. How nice for you. How disappointing for me. Here.” She handed me the photo and gave another theatrical sigh. “I’ve tried marriage, you know, but none of them worked out. Roland Nunes acts like he’d like to marry me, but I already have sort of a commitment. What if he really is a monk, like some people say? Although if he is, celibacy isn’t part of his religion. He may not have gotten any promises out of me yet, but I still might give him one if he’d move from that shack. Did you hear the phone ringing just now, Mother? It was Alfred and I told him I couldn’t see him tonight because I had another appointment. He guessed it was with Roland and seemed a bit put out. Poor Alfred. Roland is the only thing that’s keeping me from being bored completely to death.”

  “You might try getting a job,” said her mother dryly.

  “Oh, Mother, how gauche. I have Grandpa’s trust and I’ll never be able to spend it all if I try. Did you know I was rich, Mr. Jackson? Now that you do, am I any more attractive than I was a few minutes ago?”

  “You were attractive when I thought you were just a poverty-stricken tennis player.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Did Mother mention my math degrees to you? No? I can offer you not only beauty and money, but brains to boot. Does that appeal?”

  “If we’d met twenty years ago we might have had a damned good time together.”

  “Too late now, though, eh? Dear me.” She collapsed gracefully into a chair. “Maybe I should mention my money to Roland. Maybe that would perk him up even more.”

  “It certainly perks Alfred up,” said her mother. “I know he isn’t at all happy about you flirting with Roland Nunes.”

  Melissa waved a languid hand. “Oh, Alfred, Alfred. Just because I have his ring and we’ve shared the past few months, he’s positive that I’m really going to marry him. He’s too jealous for his own good. I may just abandon him to that mistress of his. They deserve each other.”

  “Alfred is the current fiancé,” explained Babs. “He’s not my favorite of my daughter’s fiancés or husbands, so my feelings won’t be hurt if she does break off the engagement.”

  “Oh, don’t be so hard on poor Alfred,” said Melissa. “He can’t help it if he’s a blah. He does have that touch with money, though, and they love him for it up in Boston.”

  “Alfred is very successful in stocks and bonds,” explained Babs. “He has a nice hideaway
in Aquinnah and owns the Noepe Hotel there in Oak Bluffs.” She smiled at her daughter. “Isn’t that where you met him, dear? At that New Year’s blast he puts on every year? But you’re right. He is a blah. You have a tendency to attach yourself to blahs, my dear. I hope that Roland Nunes isn’t another one. You should raise your sights.”

  “I raised them to Mr. Jackson here, and it did me no good at all.”

  “How well do you know Roland Nunes?” I asked her.

  She pouted. “Not as well as he’d like.”

  “Have you ever heard him mention any enemies?”

  Her eyes brightened. “Enemies? That sounds interesting. Does Roland have enemies? Oh, you must be talking about those vandals Mother mentioned when I came in. Has Roland been vandalized? He’s never mentioned it. Tell me all about it!”

  I told her what I’d seen and done.

  “My goodness,” she said. “So you were shot? I think you’re the first person I’ve ever known who’s been shot. Does it still hurt?”

  “No. Real bullets hurt a lot more a lot longer. Has Roland ever mentioned any enemies?”

  “No. Have you been shot by real bullets? How exciting!” Her eyes were actually shining.

  “There’s nothing exciting about being shot,” I said. “Can you think of anyone who might be behind this vandalism?”

  Melissa cocked her head in a thoughtful pose and then looked at her mother. “Well, there’s Mommy, of course. She’d like to have Roland’s land. Isn’t that right, Mother?”

  8

  “My daughter has more than one bad habit, as you see,” said Babs Carson. “She not only covets her neighbor’s manservant and maidservant, she doesn’t honor her parents, either. I doubt if she has many commandments left to break. I really should throw her out of the house, for the sake of the family image.”

  “Oh, Mother, you don’t care a whit about the family image,” said Melissa. She looked at me. “Mother is an artist and you know how artists are. They just don’t give a damn about propriety.”

  “Neither do some mathematicians,” said Babs cheerfully.