by JC Simmons
"If one of them is named Bilotti, it'll be a long distant call,” I said, fumbling with the telephone cord. "A very long distance."
"We do have a Mr. Tony Bilotti registered. Has something happened to him?"
Good, I thought. He catches on quickly. "Who's the other guest?" I ignored his question.
"A Mr. and Mrs. Waterbury, from South Carolina,” he answered quickly, without the bureaucratic inflection. "What's going on, Mr. Leicester?"
"I'll explain later, I promise. But for now, don't let anyone, and I mean anyone, into Bilotti's room until I can get in touch with Detective Chamberlain. Okay?"
"You got my word, Mr. Leicester. Nobody will bother the room." We hung up.
Immediately I dialed the Rockland Police Department. Chamberlain was out, but would be relayed the message.
Sandy was expecting us to leave in an hour for the drive to Port Clyde. There was no reason to tell her Bilotti was registered here until Chamberlain and I had looked over his room.
My phone rang. It was Chamberlain calling from a pay phone. "They radioed me and said you needed to talk. What's up?"
"Bilotti's registered here at the Navigator Inn."
"Meet me at the front desk in five minutes."
* * *
"It's the cleanest room I've looked over in years,” Chamberlain said, opening and closing drawers. "Nothing. The guy didn't even unpack."
A small carry-on bag was lying on the bed. It contained the usual stuff, change of clothes, toiletries. Not a thing to indicate who, or what, Bilotti was about.
We walked back to the lobby. Chamberlain brought Bilotti's bag along.
"Thanks Henry,” Chamberlain said, tossing the room key to the desk clerk. "You can rent the room, Bilotti won't be needing it any more."
Henry didn't say anything. He took the key, slid it back into its slot on the wall, and then looked at me.
Walking Chamberlain to his car, I said, "Wonder where Nat Rinaldi was staying? There can't be that many places in the area."
"I'll get right on it,” he said, unlocking his car door. "I'll check in Rockland. He could have booked a room in Tenant's Harbor, Port Clyde, or maybe on Monhegan Island. We'll look at all of'em."
"What about this couple from South Carolina, the Waterburys? We need to run a check on them, don't you think?"
"Yes,” Chamberlain said, smiling and sitting down hard behind the wheel. "You're pretty good, Leicester, much better than I expected."
"I'll call you when we get back from Port Clyde." I shut his car door for him.
"Alright. By the way, you and Sandy don't plan anything for dinner. It's lobster night down at the Angler's Inn. My treat." He drove away.
Henry was waiting for me when I walked back inside. "You promised, Mr. Leicester."
"Come on, Henry." I motioned toward the restaurant. "I'll buy you a cup of coffee."
In the cafe the waitress brought us coffee, then left us alone. An old couple, probably the Waterburys from South Carolina, were talking with her, the man with great animation, and flailing of arms. They were laughing, seemingly enjoying life.
Henry was sandy haired, rawboned, freckle faced, mid-thirties. His eyes were dark brown and, if it had not been for his perpetual smile, you would have thought him a dull person. It was his hands that caught my eye: thick, callused, bulbous tips on all digits. The nails were clean, but chipped, erose. Not the hands of a motel desk clerk. Henry was not a big man, but well proportioned, and going a little soft around the middle.
"So, Henry, what's your last name?" I needed to probe him a little. This was a small community, one never knows...
"Randan. Henry Elijah Randan. Fifth generation to live in Maine. Family came over from the Isle of Mann, across the pond." His smile turned into a wide, proud grin.
"How long you been working at the Navigator Inn?"
"Almost two years,” he answered, waving at the waitress. "It was the only thing I could find after our boat building business went keel up. You're keeping me in suspense, Mr. Leicester."
Boat building...that explained the hands.
I told him the man my client's brother was here to meet was the one murdered down at Port Clyde. The one and the same, Mr. Tony Bilotti. And that my client's brother was missing. I didn't elaborate any further. No need to spread rumors about the money.
"Talk to me, Henry. You see this Bilotti fellow coming and going, anyone with him?"
He thought for a moment, rubbed the back of his neck with a callused hand. "I only saw him twice, the day he checked in, and one day later. He was leaving in a hurry, seemed to be cursing under his breath, like he was angry at something."
"Anything else?"
"I never saw him with anyone. If I remember anything, I'll let you know."
"What about the Waterburys?" I pointed toward the couple sitting by the window. "That them over there?"
"Yeah. Here about a week, checking out today. Nice people, friendly, said they've been visiting relatives."
The waitress came by with the coffeepot and a smile. Declining another cup, I laid a five-dollar bill on the table, thanked Henry, and excused myself.
Back on the fourth floor, I knocked on Sandy's door. She took a long time answering. I was beginning to worry.
"I'm sorry,” she said, when she finally flung it open. "I was on the balcony. What were you and Chamberlain talking about? I saw you at his car."
"After you wondered about the other people who are registered here, I checked." Crossing my arms, I leaned against the doorframe, gazed out at the sparkling water in the bay through her balcony door. "One of them was Tony Bilotti. Chamberlain came back; we went through his room. There was nothing of significance."
"My brother?"
"No, he wasn't the other guest. They're a couple named Waterbury, from South Carolina." Shoving off the doorframe, I uncrossed my arms, started for my room. "You ready to drive down to Port Clyde?"
"Yes, I'll just be a minute." She disappeared into the room.
Sandy Rinaldi was a beautiful woman. I've made it a hard rule not to get involved with a client. Maybe when this is finished, I'll spend some time in the Big Easy.
* * *
We retraced our route back down Highway one until we came to state highway one thirty one. We turned left. It would take us to Port Clyde.
At the intersection of the two highways, high up on a hill, stood a huge, white mansion. "Now that's a nice house,” I said, impressed with the imposing building.
"Yes,” Sandy said, nonchalantly. "It's an exact replica of Thomas Jefferson's Virginia plantation home, Monticello."
Well, I thought to myself, wonder how she knew about the house?
"It says so right here in this brochure I read this morning,” she said, chuckling, reading my mind.
I laughed out loud. Sandy looked at me with an impish expression.
The highway to Port Clyde threaded its way through forested valleys and hills cleared for cattle grazing. Pastures had started greening, bright sunshine brought out the stark verdigris of the hills. We passed through the quaint fishing village of Tenant's Harbor, set in a picturesque cove, sheltered from the storms of the north Atlantic. More winding, climbing, descending through rural countryside brought us to Port Clyde. Here the road ended in a steep descent at the dock. Beyond lay the Atlantic, blue and glistening against the old oak trees and colorfully painted houses of the village.
The parking lot at the ferry dock was not hard to find. The highway dead-ended into the small, bi-level, gravel covered lot. There were only two cars parked in the upper level. There was no one to be seen. We'd only met one car since turning off Highway one. It truly was the off season.
We parked in the lot next to one of the cars. Sandy and I got out and stood in the bright sunshine.
"Detective Chamberlain was right,” Sandy said, looking out to sea. "There's nothing here, not even people."
Surveying the area, I saw that there were several buildings along the dock. Out in the
harbor, a dozen boats lay at anchor. None were moored at the long, weather-beaten pier. Where were the people?
"This doesn't make sense,” Sandy said, still looking out to sea. "Why was Tony Bilotti in Renato's rental car? Who shot him? It wasn't Renato. He hated guns, wouldn't touch one. What about this Waterbury couple?"
"Chamberlain's running a check on them." I said, leaning against our rental car.
"Let's get out of here, I don't like this place."
We got back in the car. Remembering a rooming house a block back from the end of the road, I parked in front and went inside. A sign hanging from a post in the yard, in the motif of a whale, read: BARSTOW INN – OFF-SEASON RATES.
A young, gray-headed man materialized behind the counter. "Yes, sir, what can I do for you?" He asked, extending his hand. "James Barstow, proprietor."
"Supposed to meet my brother in Port Clyde,” I said, shaking his hand. "I hope this is the place he's staying."
"We're the only Inn in Port Clyde. Sorry, but we have no guests. Was hoping you were going to register. Off season rates still in effect till the first of the month, then all hell breaks loose."
"Maybe he went on the ferry to Monhegan."
"Could be. But the ferry hasn't run in two days."
"How often does it run?"
"Here,” he said, reaching across the counter, pulling a brochure from a holder. "Take this, it's their schedule. Runs as advertised except for bad weather, or when there's no passengers, freight, or mail."
Thanking him, I started out.
"Say, we had a fellow killed here couple days ago. I don't suppose..."
"No, talked to my brother last night. Thanks."
Driving back from Port Clyde proved to be as good going as it was coming. With clear skies, the higher the sun rose, the greener our surroundings.
Sandy sat reading the ferry schedule. "Renato must have gone on across to Monhegan Island,” she said suddenly. "That's it. He's staying on the island waiting for Bilotti to show. Why can't we call over and find out if Renato is there?"
"Chamberlain said he'd check. Besides, I don't think they have phone service to the offshore islands. Communications is usually by radio."
Sandy was silent, brooding.
When we entered the small village of Tenant's Harbor, I noticed a sign advertising lunch at the East Wind Inn. It was almost noon. Asking Sandy if she were hungry, she said she could eat something.
Turning off the highway into the East Wind Inn drive, we descended a curving, paved lane down to a beautiful old house situated at the water's edge. A huge porch ran around two sides of the house, overlooking the cove and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
At least here, in the East Wind Inn restaurant, there were other people. We were led to a table next to a big picture window facing east towards the sea.
There's something about a restaurant overlooking the ocean in the daytime. The brightness of the surrounding hills, wafting of salt breezes, and amethystine hues of the sea makes the atmosphere more striking. Maybe the people being locals, not vacationers, made for a better ambiance. Whatever it was, the East Wind had it. And I liked it.
We both had a thick, creamy, seafood chowder, which was too good to describe. Wanting to ask for seconds, but too embarrassed, I sipped on the 1990 Acacia Chardonnay, which was superb with the chowder. The wine was rich, buttery, with nuances of honey, pear, and lemon. It was the first time I'd tasted this vintage. I made a mental note to buy some to cellar.
"Before I forget it, Sandy,” I said over coffee. "Chamberlain invited us to dinner tonight. It would be a good chance to get to know him better. You game?"
She smiled. "Never turn down a free meal, Jay."
When we arrived back at the Navigator Inn there was a message from Chamberlain. It said he'd pick us up at six thirty for dinner. That was good, we could talk tonight.
With nothing else to do for a few hours, I sat on the balcony watching the activity in the harbor, thinking about Nat Rinaldi, Tony Bilotti, wondering where the four hundred and fifty thousand dollars could be, and truly hoping Rinaldi was waiting on Monhegan Island.
Then there was this old couple from South Carolina staying here at the Navigator. Both were dressed casually and inexpensively, like retirees on a fixed income. They didn't seem to fit the high stakes world of art collecting. It couldn't hurt for Chamberlain to check them out, though.
CHAPTER SIX
Chamberlain rang my room at the appointed time. Collecting Sandy, we met him downstairs at the check in counter. Riding in silence, Chamberlain eased along the quaint waterfront to the Angler's Inn.
"I hope you both like lobster,” Chamberlain said, as we walked across the parking lot. "If you do, you're in for a treat."
"We get live Maine lobster flown into New Orleans,” Sandy said. "But they are outrageously expensive."
Chamberlain laughed, winked at me.
Inside, a woman with a loud, squeaky voice showed us to a table. As she walked away her voice lingered on like the whining of a dentist's drill. Thank God our waitress didn't sound like her.
Chamberlain ordered the nights special for all of us, and began to look over the wine list. "They have a 1990 Chablis Grand Cru, from Les Preuses. It's dry, steely, and goes great with the lobster. Is that okay, or would either of you like something else to drink?"
Sandy said the wine would be fine. It delighted me that Chamberlain had an appreciation for the grape. Wine has been a hobby of mine for twenty years. The Chablis was familiar, though not the vintage. It should be fun.
The lobster arrived. Three, steaming, pink Maine lobster per person. Unbelievable! Gluttony at its finest. The wine was superb; a yellow gold color, a rich, honeyed nose with plenty of refreshing acidity to offset the sweetness. It was outstanding with the lobster and, for the second time today, I promised to add to my cellar.
Holding my glass up to Sandy, I said, "What do you think?"
"Wonderful." She twirled the wine in the glass, smelled the bouquet. "This is truly good. A great choice, Detective. You can be my sommelier anytime."
Chamberlain smiled; obviously pleased we appreciated the wine.
Sandy ate every succulent morsel of her lobster. I was only able to get two of mine down. Finishing with a satisfied grin, she was happier than I had seen her thus far.
We sat, sipping on the second bottle of Les Preuses, listening to the noise of the now full restaurant, smelling aromas of steaming lobster and clarified butter wafting across the room.
"Tell me, Jay,” Chamberlain asked. "How did you get into the private investigation business? If you don't mind my asking?"
"Don't mind, J.L.,” I lied. "Spent twenty-five years driving airplanes around. Got tired of a lot of things about the business, not the least of which was the nouveau riche that wanted pilots for servants. Wouldn't wash with me. Government bureaucracy, however well-meant, was squeezing us too tight."
"Why this business?"
Talking about myself made me feel uneasy, especially in front of a client. Cutting him short, I said, "I grew up in a family of law enforcement people. It's the only thing I knew besides flying. How about you?"
"Me? I don't know." He pulled his lobster bib off, wiped his hands in the lemon water. "Joined the Air Force right out of college. Trained as an electronics officer. Ended up doing surveillance against the North Koreans at the end of that conflict. I guess I just naturally gravitated toward law enforcement. Kind of enjoy working in a small town. Grew up here, know everybody. We don't get a lot of complicated stuff. Makes life easy, you know?"
"Well, you've got something complicated, now,” Sandy said, pulling at her bib. "Bilotti's dead and my brother has still not contacted us."
"I checked all the places your brother could be staying,” Chamberlain said almost defensively. "Haven't located where, yet."
"What about Monhegan Island?" I asked, following suit with the bib and finger bowl.
"No, he's not registered at the only place open this time
of year, Barbara Hitchcock's guest house. They stay open year-round. I talked to her by radio this afternoon. He could be staying with someone, maybe in a private residence."
"Not likely." Sandy said, dejected. "He doesn't know anyone in Maine."
"Well, he's got to be staying somewhere. I'll keep looking."
Miss Dental Drill came to our table. "Telephone call for you, J.L.,” she whined away. "You can take it at my desk."
"Thank you, Lucy." Chamberlain excused himself, slid out of his seat. "I'll just be a minute."
After Chamberlain was out of earshot, Sandy looked at me and said, "Do you think this man's capable of handling this situation?" She wiped her mouth, looked toward where Chamberlain had disappeared. "Maybe we ought to call the sheriff, or the state police."
"He's capable,” I said, defending Chamberlain. "He works at his own pace, in his own way. Don't underestimate him, Sandy." I'm not sure I convinced her.
Chamberlain returned shortly. Whatever the phone call, it was troubling him. But all he said was, "Just routine." It probably had to do with his wife.
Over coffee Chamberlain said the photo enlargements of Nat Rinaldi would be ready in the morning. He would pass them around throughout the area. Maybe someone would recognize him.
"You find out anything on Bilotti from your friend in Chicago?" I asked, surprised he hadn't mentioned anything about this all evening. He had seemed pretty preoccupied since the phone call.
"No. My friend didn't know him, but he's going to check and let me know tomorrow." Chamberlain fidgeted with his coffee cup. Finally, he said, "My wife is interested in art. You never said what collection Nat Rinaldi was here to purchase. It might brighten her day if she knew I was working on a case involving the art world. She might even know the artist's work."
Looking at Sandy, I deferred to her expertise.
Sandy smiled at Detective Chamberlain. "The collection was by Rockwell Kent. I know little about him, except that he did some government murals and worked in several mediums. He was some sort of socialist. Renato's the expert on Kent."
