Vineyard Stalker

by Philip R. Craig

  “You should spend less time on my romances and more on your own, Mother,” replied her daughter. “Rob Chadwick has been eyeing you ever since Joanna left him for that slimy prince of hers. Now that she’s gone with half of Rob’s money, he’d love to climb into your bed. And why not? You know you like him. The two of you could have a splendid golden years affair. Or you could even get married.”

  “Then you could marry Roland and we could combine the three properties and have a genuine estate. How splendid.”

  Melissa smiled. “What an excellent plan! Maybe I will marry him. I’ll give the idea some real thought. Maybe I’m already weakening.” She gave me a girlish smile. “We ladies can be so indecisive sometimes.”

  “I take it you’re talking about the Robert Chadwick who owns the land on the other side of Roland Nunes’s place,” I said. “Has he been trying to buy Nunes’s land, too?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Babs.

  “Of course he has,” said Melissa. “And he has even more money than we have. Or at least he did before Joanna got half of it. Tell me, Mother, do you suppose Rob hired those men who shot Mr. Jackson? Come to think of it, did you?”

  “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,” said Babs. “No, dear, I didn’t hire anyone to vandalize Mr. Nunes’s property and I’m certain Rob Chadwick didn’t either. In fact, you’re the only person I know who might hire a thug to do that sort of dirty work. You didn’t try to poison Roland’s cat, did you, darling?”

  “Why, Mother! How could you think such a thing? I might pluck a man’s eyes out, but I’d never harm his cat! You’ve hurt my feelings.”

  “Poor baby. Well, Mr. Jackson, have we entertained you enough for one morning?”

  I handed Melissa the photo of the vandal. “Before I go, I’d like to show you this picture I took last night. Do you recognize the man?”

  “Oh, is this the man who shot you? How thrilling.” She frowned at the picture, turned it this way and that, sighed, and handed it back. “I’m afraid not. Is that how a killer looks?”

  “Killers mostly look like ordinary people,” I said. I stood up and glanced at Babs Carson, feeling a smile on my face. “It’s been grand. I may want to talk with you again. If you think of something that might help solve this vandalism issue, please let me know. My number’s in the book.”

  “I will,” said Babs.

  “And if you change your mind about me, I hope you won’t hesitate to call,” said Melissa.

  “I’ll be sure to do that,” I said.

  “I’ll be holding my breath,” she said, running her tongue over her lips and looking at me from beneath lowered lids.

  I heard her laughter answering mine as I left the house.

  Robert Chadwick’s home was surrounded by another of those high stone walls that were becoming all the rage. I thought of pictures I’d seen of cities on the Mediterranean and in South America where even higher walls surrounded the homes of the wealthy. It was an ancient practice for the rich and powerful to separate and defend themselves from the people in the streets. I didn’t think that Chadwick or the island’s other castle builders had to fortify themselves against assaults by the Vineyard’s peasantry, but maybe I was wrong.

  I parked in front of his large brick house and knocked on his door. Eventually the door opened and a large, ruddy-faced man peered out at me. He looked to be on the cusp between late middle and early old age, which, I’d read somewhere, was between sixty-five and eighty these days. He was wearing sandals, khaki shorts, and a T-shirt that had “Trust Your Professor” printed across its front. His thick legs and arms were hairy but his head was bald except for his ears, which sported tufts of hair growing out of them. Reading glasses hung from his neck.

  “Mr. Chadwick?”

  “Yes?” He gazed beyond me at my battered old Land Cruiser and then back to me.

  “My name is Jackson. I’ve talked with your neighbor Mrs. Carson about vandalism that’s taken place on the land between yours and hers, and I’d like talk to you about it, too.”

  “Yes. I just got a phone call from Babs. She said you might be stopping by. Come in.”

  I followed him into a library filled with books that looked like they’d actually been read and took a leather chair opposite his. At a desk was one of those captain’s chairs that colleges give to retiring professors.

  “Babs told me that vandals have been damaging Roland Nunes’s place,” he said, “and that you’ve been asked to look into it. What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?”

  I handed him my photo. “You can tell me if you recognize this fellow.”

  He donned his specs and studied the photo, then gave it back to me. “No, I don’t recognize him. Is this the vandal?”

  “He’s one of them. There’s at least one more, but I didn’t get his picture.”

  “How did you happen to get the photo of this one?”

  Leaving out Carole Cohen’s name and relationship to Nunes, and what I’d been told about Nunes’s desertion from the army, I started from the beginning and told him how I’d gotten involved, what I’d been told, and what I’d experienced the previous night, concluding with my efforts to get an analysis of the cat food.

  He listened without saying a word. When I was done, he said, “It sounds like a matter for the police.”

  “I agree, but my principal doesn’t want them involved. She says Nunes is a very private person and she doesn’t want him to have to deal with the police.”

  Chadwick pursed his lips. “What do you suppose is your principal’s real reason? Do you know?”

  I made a small gesture with one hand. “My advice was to call the police, but my principal said no.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Curious. Dealing with the police would seem to be much preferable to dealing with the vandals.” He eyed me. “But we all have secrets, I suppose.”

  “I have a couple,” I said. “Have you had any vandalism here at your place?”

  “You’ve seen my stone wall.”

  “You don’t have a front gate.”

  “I have a motion light out there. Anyone coming in at night would set it off.”

  “Babs Carson has a wall and a gate. Do people need that much security up here in the wilds of West Tisbury?”

  “Probably not, but crime is hardly unknown here on the island, and I happen to be a wealthy man so my house would be a temptation to an enterprising thief. Ergo, the wall and the motion light. I also have a security system here in the house.” He arched a brow and smiled. “You aren’t actually casing the place, are you?”

  “No,” I said. “Not many college professors are wealthy. How did you manage it?”

  “I did it the old-fashioned American way: I inherited my fortune. A good thing, too, because I’m really not very good at handling money. Fortunately, I have bankers to do that for me. That allowed me to do what I really liked: teaching history. I’m retired now, but I had a fine time for forty years. I’ve noticed that you’ve been eyeing my books. Are you an academic yourself?”

  “I’m a fisherman. Can you think of anyone who would have reason to hire people to vandalize Nunes’s property?”

  He nodded. “The two most obvious people are Babs and myself. We’re both interested in buying the land, but Roland Nunes won’t move off it. If we could frighten him into moving, it would be to our benefit. Is that why you’re here, Mr. Jackson? To ask me if I employed the men who shot you last night?”

  I felt a smile on my face. “I wasn’t going to be quite that straightforward, but now that you mention it, did you?”

  “Of course not. But I’d say that anyway, wouldn’t I?” He returned my smile. “The fact of the matter is that I wouldn’t know where to look for a vandal if I wanted one. I dare say I could find one if I set my mind to it, because I’m a wealthy man and wealth opens many doors, but to date I’ve never done that.”

  “Can you think of anyone else who might have hired the two men? Anyone who might have a grudge against Nunes?” />
  He spread his big hands. “They call it an ivory tower, and it is. I know more about books than about the real lives most people lead. Even though Nunes has been my neighbor for years, I know almost nothing about him except that he seems to be a very gentle man who lives an incredibly simple life. He appears to be the least likely of men to have enemies.”

  “Is it possible that your ex-wife might know something that you don’t know?”

  He gave a short, ironic laugh. “Joanna knows more about a lot of things than I do, including how to become wealthy by marrying and then divorcing, but I can’t imagine her knowing or caring about anything having to do with Roland Nunes. She always had her sights set higher on the social and economic food chain. I’m told she’s in Cannes now, with her little prince, so I don’t think you’ll have an opportunity to question her. Even if she were here I think you could scratch her off of your list of suspects.”

  “What do you know about Melissa Carson?”

  His eyes widened for a second. “Ah, Melissa. She’s certainly a woman who knows what she likes. I’m actually very fond of her, if you want the truth. In a fatherly way, of course. I’m more interested in Babs as a partner, as I’m sure Melissa must have told you.”

  “I believe she did mention something like that.”

  “Mention? Ha! I’m sure she portrayed me as drooling at the thought of Babs, and that she urged Babs to join me in bed! Did you know that Melissa has a masters in math? She’s a very bright woman, but her hormones are her guide. What did you think of her? I suspect she invited you to enjoy her charms. Am I right?”

  “I’m past my days as a wolf, I’m afraid.”

  “I believe that Melissa has her eyes on our friend Roland Nunes in spite of that rock Alfred Cabot gave her. Melissa likes to have a man who’s nearby, and Alfred’s usually up in Boston tending to financial matters in the family bank. He should either move down here or move Melissa up there if he wants to add a gold band to that diamond on her finger.” He glanced at his watch. “Good heavens, it’s almost noon. Would you care to join me for lunch? I can offer you beer or wine or whatever else you might like with vichyssoise and a sandwich. I make my own vichyssoise and I’m very vain about it. What do you say?”

  “Thanks. I’ll help you make the sandwiches.”

  “Splendid.”

  I followed him into a bright kitchen and created a couple of ham and cheese with tomato and lettuce sandwiches on homemade white bread while he got the soup out of the fridge and set a couple of places on a patio table outside the sliding doors leading to his backyard.

  We accompanied the food with cellar temperature Theakston’s Old Peculiar, a rich, hearty brew I rarely drink but always enjoy. It could be argued that Old Peculiar is too heavy a drink to have with vichyssoise, but it suited both of us just fine.

  From the patio I could see the far woods but not Roland Nunes’s property.

  “Do you know a man named Jed Mullins?” I asked, thinking that if he knew Mullins that he might know more about Nunes than he’d admitted.

  “Never heard of him,” said Chadwick. “Who’s Jed Mullins?”

  “Someone I’ll be talking to. He’s a friend of Roland Nunes.”

  “Another suspect on your list?”

  “I’m just groping around trying to get a lead on who’s behind this business. Mullins may know something useful.”

  He nodded. “It’s sort of like what scholars do: They grope around in libraries and piles of dusty papers looking for something that might turn out to be important. I like doing that sort of thing myself.”

  “What’s your specialty?”

  “Ancient civilizations. I probably should have studied archaeology, but I had too many history books to read. When I travel, I go to see the remains of old cultures. I think I learn about them through my feet, by walking through the ruins and standing where the people who built them stood.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Oh, to Britain to see Stonehenge and Avebury and as many other sites as I could manage. There are standing stones from Land’s End to the Orkneys, you know. And I’ve been to Carnac in France, and to Malta and Greece and Turkey and Israel, and Egypt of course. And, let’s see, to Great Zimbabwe and Machu Picchu and Chichén Itzá and Mount Alban and Angkor, and a lot of places here in the U.S.: the Anasazi ruins in the southwest, the mounds along the Ohio and Mississippi, the great snake mound, Mystery Hill up in New Hampshire. Places like that. You like to travel?”

  “I’ve been a few places, but I don’t get off the island too often.”

  “They say that Roland Nunes was in Vietnam, but that he hasn’t left that place of his since he got back. I guess Vietnam got the wanderthirst out of his system.”

  “I guess it did.” I finished my beer and got up. “If I think of anything you might know, I may come back and ask you about it. If you recall anything, I hope you’ll give me a ring. I’m in the book.”

  “Drop by any time. If I’m not off somewhere looking at an old pile of broken stone, I’ll be here.”

  “If you’re gone so much, why are you interested in buying Roland Nunes’s property?”

  He walked me to his door. “Joanna was my second wife. I was a widower. I have two children by my first marriage. I don’t necessarily want them living with me here, but I’d like to have them and my grandchildren nearby. If I had Nunes’s land I’d build a couple of houses there and see if I could entice them to move to the island, or at least summer here.” He put out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson. Glad you could stay for lunch.”

  As I drove toward Vineyard Haven I wondered if I was getting sentimental in my old age, and if my liking the last three people I’d interviewed that morning was clouding my judgment. It’s usually not wise to become fond of suspects in a case.

  On the other hand, as Jung might agree, our emotions and intuitions are sometimes sounder than our pure reasoning.

  I wondered if Nunes’s old buddy, Jed Mullins, would be at home.

  9

  Jed Mullins was not at home, and thus my string of finding people where I wanted them to be was snapped at four. However, his wife told me where he was working so I drove there. Mullins was unloading lumber from the back of a sixteenwheel flatbed. He handled his big forklift as if it were a dancing partner and the two of them were alone on a spotlighted dance floor while a good orchestra played Strauss. When he backed away from the stacked lumber I got his attention and he turned off his engine.

  He looked to be about Nunes’s age and sported a huge, gray, waxed mustache that curled upward and compensated nicely for the lack of hair on the rest of his head. He was large in all directions and his arms and face were browned by the sun.

  I told him my name and said, “Carole Cohen has hired me to see who’s been vandalizing Roland Nunes’s place up in West Tisbury. She says that you’re Roland’s friend. I’m hoping that you may be able to give me some idea about who might be behind the guys who have been doing the vandalizing.”

  Mullins studied me with expressionless eyes, then said, “You say Carole hired you, eh?”

  I had anticipated his carefulness, so I dug a scrap of paper out of my pocket and handed it to him. “You’ve got a cell phone there on your belt. Here’s her number. Give her a call and check it out.”

  He took the paper. “I’ll do that.”

  “I’ll give you some privacy,” I said, and walked to the shade cast by the piled lumber. I leaned against the yellow boards, inhaled their sweet smell, and watched as he spoke into his phone. Everyone in the world had a cell phone these days. Even Zee and I shared one. Originally we’d gotten it to carry in the Land Cruiser when we were on the beaches, in case we got stuck out there somewhere and needed help; later we used it elsewhere because it was occasionally convenient; now one or the other of us seemed to use it regularly; as is often the case with gadgets, what had once been a luxury had now become a necessity.

  When Mullins returned his phone to his belt, I walked b
ack to him.

  “When it comes to Roland, I’m careful about who I talk to,” he said.

  “Carole told me about her brother going over the hill,” I said. “She said you were the only other person who knows about it. I’m hoping that if you know that much, you might know more. Maybe something that will give me a line on who’s been giving him grief.”

  He frowned. “I haven’t seen Roland for a while. What kind of grief?”

  I told him of my adventures, my intent to get the photos analyzed, and of my talks with Robert Chadwick and with Babs and Melissa Carson.

  When I was through he gave a snort and said, “Jesus, Roland doesn’t deserve that sort of crap, but I don’t think I can steer you toward anybody who might be behind it. You say the guys who stun-gunned you didn’t seem to have any problem with killing somebody if the money was right?”

  “I was sort of dizzy at the time, but that’s the way I got it.” I gave him my photo of the intruder. “You recognize this guy?”

  He frowned at the picture and shook his head. “Damned camouflage hides a lot.” He handed the photo back to me. “That’s pretty heavy stuff, killing somebody for money.”

  “People have enemies sometimes. Can you think of any Roland Nunes might have? You know him from way back.”

  He squinted at me. “Thirty years ago I might have been able to guess at a few. You know anything about Roland back then?”

  “I know the gossip and what Carole Cohen told me: that he was some kind of major-league warrior who put in several tours in Vietnam before he decided he’d had enough and left without saying good-bye.”

  He eyed me. “What do you think about that? About him going over the hill?”

  I shrugged. “The whole command pulled out not much later. I don’t fault people who’ve had their fill of war.”

  “Were you over there?”

  “Not for long. I got mortared on my first patrol.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I’m not even sure. Somewhere around Tay Ninh.”

  He smiled slightly. “Get to see the Khmer ruins up there?”