by JC Simmons
Back up in the room, I slid open the glass doors, walked out on the balcony, and sat down. I wanted to make some notes on the conversation with Anastasio. The mind has a strange way of forgetting fifty percent of what it learns in about six months. Making a written account has proven its worth a thousand times, especially for dates, times, and exactly what was said or done in given situations.
The sky had turned a gunmetal blue. The wind had picked up and there was a cold, rotting smell of the sea in the air. The mare’s-tails were being vindicated by the approaching cold front. A pelican flew low over the ferry dock, gray like a piece of newspaper blowing across a deserted street.
Finishing the notes, I leaned back in the chair and watched a flock of seagull’s fight for positions on the pilings along the waterfront. They told me the wind direction was from the northwest. Seagulls always sit facing into the wind.
Still troubled about Anastasio having my magnum, I remembered hiding the gun shortly after discovering the door to my motel room open. Nothing else was missing. Even with the maid's involvement, whoever stole my gun entered the room while I was out for a moment, sitting on the balcony, or asleep. Henry had access, but if he was involved, he had played a good hand when confronted. I'll say this for whoever it was, they are good, really good.
The phone rang. Going inside, I picked up the receiver, "Yes?"
"You can have Rinaldi's body anytime you want,” Chamberlain said.
"Thanks, J.L. Listen, I need your recommendation for a funeral home to handle the body for me, get it ready for transport, do the paperwork, deliver it to the airport."
"No problem. Wilson's Mortuary can handle it. Dave Wilson is the owner. He's a good friend. They're listed in the book, but I'll give him a call for you."
"Thanks,” I said, making a mental note of the funeral home. "I'll call Sandy, then let them know the details after I speak with her."
"You talk with Henry?"
"Yeah. I don't know what to think, yet."
"You'll tell me if you learn anything about his involvement?"
"J.L., I'm not working against you. I thought we understood each other?" Finding a pad, I jotted down the funeral home's name.
"I just wanted to be sure. Call me after you talk with Sandy."
"Will do. We've got to get organized. There's lots of work to be done. Two murders, half a million unaccounted for, a missing art collection, remember?"
"Yes,” Chamberlain said. "I remember."
* * *
"Rinaldi Art Gallery. This is Sandy. How may I help you?"
"Hello, Sandy, it's Jay."
"Oh, Jay,” she said, concern in her voice. "Have you found out who killed Renato?"
"No, not yet,” I answered quickly. "But I did meet with a man named Gino Anastasio this morning."
"You mean the Mafia Don from Chicago?"
"Yes, he was Bilotti's boss,” I answered, stretching the phone cord across the bed, sitting down at the small table, and thinking how familiar Sandy was with the name. "It was Anastasio who was selling the Kent Collection."
"My God, Jay,” she gasped. "Did he have Rinaldi killed for the money?"
"Chamberlain and I both think the stakes are too small for Anastasio. We're working on other angles which could involve him or his organization." I drew a circle around the funeral home name.
"What angles?" She asked. "If not Anastasio, then who?"
"Don't worry, Sandy, we'll find out." I hesitated and drew another circle. "We'll have some help. Anastasio's whole organization is looking into it, according to him. Seems he planned to give the Kent collection to his wife as a birthday present. Only she wanted Norman Rockwell instead of..."
"Rockwell Kent,” Sandy interrupted. "It's not an infrequent mix-up."
"Yeah, well, Anastasio's taking this one personally. He's lost the collection and a hired hand. He hasn't been compensated for either."
"Upset then, is Mr. Anastasio?" She said, in a strangely amused tone.
"He's serious, Sandy. He knows all about you and your brother. My background, as well as Chamberlain's, was thoroughly researched. He even followed you to New Orleans. They're watching you now."
I heard her gasp.
"Sandy, you okay?"
There was a pause. Then, "Yes, I'm fine. I just hadn't thought about anyone following me. The idea doesn't sit too well."
"There's one other thing,” I said, as gently as I could. "Your brother's body is ready to be returned. What do you want me to do?"
"Send it to Bluillot's Crematorium,” she answered, quickly. "I've made arrangements with them."
"Okay, spell the name for me." I grimaced, having always hated the thought of being cremated. "Give me their address and phone number. I'll let them know which flight and the time of arrival."
Sandy gave me the information and, after promising to keep her informed on our progress with the investigation, we hung up.
Sitting on the bed, I thought about cremation. It didn't matter to the dead, but it did to me. I had a bad experience watching a fellow airman burn to death in an airplane crash one cold and snowy day after they slid off an icy runway. The only fire I have been able to tolerate since was in a fireplace.
Standing, I walked to the sliding glass doors of the room. The wind was really whipping. The workboats in the bay were pounding, their bows throwing salty spray high into the leaden, overcast sky. The rain would come soon.
Stepping over to the phone, I punched in Chamberlain's number. It was time to go to work.
* * *
Turning out of the hotel parking lot onto the road paralleling the ocean, I headed toward the police department. A lonely traffic light hung far ahead, a flash of changing red, yellow, and green in a bleak, gray sky. The rain started in earnest as I arrived at Chamberlain's office.
"Mr. Leicester,” the Desk Sergeant said, as I entered the front door of the police station. "A good nor'wester blowing in. Should be the last one of the year."
Looking at him closely for the first time, I observed that he was slightly less than six feet, compactly built, with a ruddy, clean-shaven face, and receding hairline. He had broad, powerful shoulders, with well-muscled arms. He was in his mid to late thirties or early forties. His nametag read: SERGEANT BOWERS. He was a man more suited for the outside than a desk job, I thought.
"Does the temperature usually drop this much in the spring?" I asked, wiping the icy rain off my face with a handkerchief.
"We've had heavy snow this time of year,” he said, grinning, bending forward, forearms on the desk, his two hands closed before him. "Not like being in the South, is it?"
"Not in your wildest imagination, Sergeant."
He laughed, a big booming sound that seemed to shake the building.
"Is Chamberlain in his office?"
"He's expecting you. Go right in."
"J.L.,” I said, sitting down in one of the spartan chairs in the bare office. "Your friend Dave Wilson's a nice man. He's taking care of all the arrangements to ship Rinaldi's body back to New Orleans. He's even working with the crematorium there to pick up the body. He said to tell you thanks for the business."
"He's a good man,” J.L. said, leaning back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. "Let's look at what we've got."
Chamberlain went through the whole scenario from the time the body was discovered in the parking lot at the Port Clyde ferry dock with me filling in the blanks where Sandy and I were involved.
The only identification on the body in the car at the ferry dock was that of Nat Rinaldi, which turned out to be Tony Bilotti. Chamberlain called Sandy, who was listed as next of kin on the Driver's License, who in turn contacted me. Nat Rinaldi washed up on the beach two days later. Both men had been killed in the same way; a .9mm slug behind the right ear, execution style.
Nat Rinaldi was supposedly traveling with four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash to purchase an art collection by renowned artist, Rockwell Kent. Both money and art collection
are missing.
Tony Bilotti turned out to be a low-level Mafia mole from Chicago. This led to the suspicion that the Wise Guys may have killed both men and ripped off the money. But the head of the crime families, Gino Anastasio, informed us he had nothing to do with the murders.
"Well,” Chamberlain said, after an awkward pause. "We've got to list our possible suspects."
"Okay,” I agreed, leaning forward in the chair, grabbing the edge of his desk with both hands. "I'll put Anastasio at the head of the list. Your turn?"
Chamberlain looked at me. I could see the brain working through his eyes.
"It could have been one of the local people in Port Clyde, or someone here, in Rockland." He paused.
Remaining silent, I enjoyed watching his investigative thought processes continue in their current vein.
He continued. "Maybe someone on Monhegan Island that we don't know about...” His voice trailed off. Then suddenly: "Or, by God, it could be me. I carry a .9mm automatic, shoots the same slug as the ones dug out of both brains. Don't you want to run my gun through ballistics?"
"Why, are you guilty?"
Chamberlain slid a piece of paper across his desk. It was a ballistics report from the state crime lab, saying a bullet fired from Chamberlain's gun did not match those taken from the two bodies.
"Wanted the record absolutely clear,” he said, a mocking grin on his face.
This may have been amusing to him and me, but it was still sound police procedure.
"That only leaves one other possibility,” I said, sliding the ballistics report back on his desk. It was something I felt had to be placed before us. "Sandy had her own brother killed, along with Bilotti. Stole her own money back, and made off with the art collection."
"Why would she hire you if she did it?"
"We're listing possibilities,” I said, shrugging both shoulders. "She's on the list."
Chamberlain nodded.
"We need to pay a visit to Monhegan Island. When can we get across?"
"I'll arrange it, now." Chamberlain picked up the phone and punched in a number from memory.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
J.L. booked us two tickets to Monhegan Island aboard the ferry out of Port Clyde. It was scheduled for a ten- thirty a.m. departure.
"You mean, if it goes across,” I said, laughing. "Young Captain Barstein seems to run when he needs the money."
J.L. looked at me with a seriousness I had not seen before.
"We can't control the weather,” he said, shoving the phone to the side of his desk. "But the ferry will run tomorrow unless a hurricane blows out of the north."
I laughed. J.L. knew the sea as well as anyone. He understood that Barstein ran across when he could. But J.L. was still miffed at the Captain neglecting to say he had seen Rinaldi. Captain Barstein was in for a rough day tomorrow, both from the sea and Chamberlain.
"This weather should blow through tonight. It usually doesn't last long this time of year,” J.L. said, looking out his window at the rain pelting down from the darkening sky. "The wind will blow early, then lay about noon. We shouldn't have any problem. I'll pick you up at the Navigator around eight o'clock in the morning."
"Sounds great to me,” I said, looking at my old Rolex GMT-master I bought twenty-five years ago as a young aviator. It showed the time, both in local and Greenwich Mean Time, and now read three o'clock. "So what do we spend the rest of the day accomplishing?"
Chamberlain looked up at me with sad eyes. A gust of wind rattled the window behind his head. Rain spattered on the pane, running down in crooked lines.
"If you don't mind, Jay, I'm going home. Kathleen's having a rough go of it this afternoon. Bill Reinbold called while you were on the way over. He's at the house, giving her something for the pain." He looked down to his desk, shuffled some papers.
"Anything I can do?"
"No,” he answered, looking up with watery eyes. "I'll see you in the morning.
Leaving the office, I headed for my rental car.
"They're forecasting snow flurries by midnight, Mr. Leicester,” Sergeant Bowers said, as I passed his desk.
Shaking my head, I shuddered, but made no comment.
I did not notice the cutting wind, or the icy, stinging rain while walking to the car. My thoughts were on Kathleen Chamberlain. Slamming the car door, I started the engine. Only fools and little children think there is any fairness in this world. I pounded my fist on the steering wheel.
Driving back to the Navigator Inn, I passed old houses with pointed roofs crouched low to the ground, hunched under the weight of a hundred years and a heavy sky. The streets were empty and hollow, echoing the sound of the car's engine. Parking in the back, near the entrance to the elevator, I sat for a moment watching the wipers scrapping pelting sleet and snow from the glass. Rainbow patterns spread across the windshield as the rubber blades lost the battle with the build up of road grime.
Deciding to pick up a newspaper, I went around to the lobby. Henry was sitting behind the desk watching a game show on a tiny, color television.
"Mr. Leicester,” he said without moving his eyes from the set. "Nasty afternoon. Hope you hadn't planned on dining with us this evening?"
The thought had crossed my mind.
"Mabel closed early,” Henry said. "No guests, except you, in the hotel. No sense in staying open. Hope you won't complain?"
"No, but I would take a cup of that coffee you've got brewing,” I said, smelling the fresh aroma.
"Sure,” he nodded, still watching the game show. "Be about three more minutes."
"How about some change so I can get a paper?" I laid a dollar bill on the counter.
"The Grapes of Wrath, you idiot,” Henry said, getting to his feet, answering the question being asked the contestant on the game show.
He turned off the set.
"Jeopardy...boy, I would love to get on that show. I could make a fortune."
Henry looked at the dollar bill on the counter. He picked it up and handed it back to me. "Sorry, no papers left. They only deliver six a day. You can have mine, I've finished with it. I keep the crossword puzzle, though” he said defiantly, grinning.
"Thanks,” I said, taking the paper and folding it up. "I'm not smart enough for the crossword puzzles. Put me down for a wake-up call at seven in the morning. I'd appreciate it."
"Done." He made a notation on a pad. "I talked with the maid today. She promised to be more careful."
Shaking my head, I did not reply.
"Oh, by the way,” Henry said, as I took a styrofoam cup of the fresh brewed coffee and started walking away. "Here's a couple of phone calls for you, and an envelope."
He handed me the messages.
Attaching a tiny piece of clear tape to my hotel room door this morning before leaving, I found it undisturbed. Throwing the newspaper on the table, I sat down on the bed and went over the messages.
One of the calls was from Guy Robbins. Dialing his office number, his secretary said he had gone for the day, took his boat out for a sail. Informing her I would call him back tomorrow, I silently wished I was aboard Picaroon with him. The other call was from Sandy. There was no answer at the Gallery. I would try her later.
My name was hand-printed across the front of the small white envelope in bold, block letters. There was no return address. Opening it, I took out the blue sheet of paper. It read: 'What you don't use, you lose.'
I had wanted to avoid this, but I had a vision of Kathleen Chamberlain, of death and dying, of how short life can truly be, and of the few pleasures we truly have. Having committed it to memory, I dialed the number Mabel had written on the restaurant check.
Finding Mabel's house was easy. Her directions were explicit. She met me at the door with a warm hug, and a kiss on the cheek. A roaring fire blazed brightly in a wonderful old stone hearth. The house was small, but neat and well furnished. It had the feeling of being lived in.
"You like wine?"
"Sure."
&nb
sp; "Red or white?"
"Whatever you're having."
She went into the kitchen. I could hear the tinkle of glass, a cork being pulled from a bottle. It afforded me time to look around. The walls of the living room were decorated with prints of the sea. A photograph on a small table over by a window was of a handsome man in a wool sweater and a sailor's watch cap. Chamberlain said that her husband was lost at sea.
Mabel returned with two glasses filled with red wine and a small tray of cheese and crackers.
"Let's sit on the couch in front of the fire." She indicated the small sofa.
We sipped the wine, talked, and worked our way through those awkward first moments.
She was a plain woman, hardworking, with a serious quality. My kind of person. We seemed to get along well.
"More wine?"
"Yes, thank you."
She went to the kitchen and brought back the bottle.
"Tell me about Mabel,” I said, holding the wineglass up to the fire, admiring the ruby, orange-tinged color.
She laughed out loud. "Now there's an interesting subject for you. I was born here, live here, and I'll probably die here."
She said it without sarcasm.
"Any children?"
"No children,” she said, looking across my shoulder.
Getting up, she walked over, picked up the photograph of the man, brought it back, and handed it to me.
"My only true love, my husband. The sea took him."
"I'm sorry,” I said, holding the frame gently. "He looks like a fine man."
"Yes,” she said, taking the photograph, looking at it as if for the first time. "He was as good as they come. I loved him deeply."
She put the photograph back in its place.
Smiling as she sat back down, she said, "That's my life story; Billy, love, tragedy, work. I've gotten used to it, but I'll never forget him. Now, let's hear about you."
We drank more wine, talked.
"You have any leads as to who killed those two men?"
"We're working on it."
