Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)

by JC Simmons

  Standing beside the car for a moment, I listened to the night sounds. A bird cried somewhere high up in the dark treetops. Whispering surf rolled gently on the small beach below the house. Random night wind rustled new spring leaves. Faraway, I heard the eerie pulsing of a siren. Then, as if on cue, the mournful strands of LORENA wafted out to me. Walking up on the porch, I knocked gently on the door.

  "Mr. Leicester." Kathleen greeted me warmly. "What a great pleasure to see you again. Come in, come in."

  "Only if you promise to call me Jay from now on."

  "Alright, Jay it is." She ushered me inside.

  Following her down the hall, I watched the way she walked, saw the slump of her shoulders, then the effort that lifted them, saw the slender figure that seemed to sway, then marshal all of its strength to remain erect.

  At the doorway to the kitchen, she turned and said, "J.L. is elbow deep in pasta flour. He could use your help."

  I handed her the two books on Rockwell Kent she so graciously loaned me. She took them gently into her bosom. Unknown emotions softened the lines of her face, giving it the quality of a smile, of pain, and something greater that seemed to lift her spirits.

  "I hope you enjoyed them."

  "There was much to learn."

  She turned and walked away.

  J.L. did, indeed, appear to be in need of help. I almost laughed at him when I entered the kitchen. He wore an apron, his shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows, and flour was scattered everywhere. His face and arms were covered, the floor was covered, even his hair. He looked like a snowman.

  Spying me, he said, "Glad you're here. Help me with this cutter." He pointed to a small, chrome-plated machine sitting on the table.

  "You look like you're having fun, J.L."

  "I do enjoy it. Fresh pasta is one hundred percent better than store bought. Don't you think?"

  "Never made it before, so I wouldn't know."

  "Here,” J.L. said, offering me a glass. "Pour the champagne from that cooler over on the buffet. I think you'll enjoy this one."

  He went to the sink and washed the flour from his hands while I poured the straw gold liquid into the flutes, careful not to let it boil over the top.

  J.L. dried his hands and took a glass. He held it up to the light. "Look at the tiny bubbles. Have you ever seen any this small?" I admitted I hadn't. "The smaller they are, the better the champagne."

  "I've heard that." Smelling the yeasty nose exploding from the glass, I said, "But the proof is in the tasting."

  J.L. nodded and grinned.

  The nose turned quickly to a damp straw smell, an indication of old age. Sipping the wine, I found it dry with a nutty, rich flavor and a good finish. "Well, you're right so far with the tiny bubble theory. This is excellent champagne."

  The smile across J.L.'s face indicated my approval meant a lot to him. "1904 Moet & Chandon,” he said, as my mouth fell open. "The last time I opened a bottle, I peeked at my notes, was September, 1967." He held his glass toward me. "It's my pleasure."

  There wasn't much for me to say except thank you.

  "By the way,” J.L. said, setting the champagne flute down on the table. "I forgot to ask, why did you call tonight? You find out something?"

  Making a decision not to ruin the moment, I said, "Let's enjoy the wine and pasta. After dinner we'll discuss business. This is too good to spoil."

  J.L. looked at me with a strange expression. We cut the pasta dough into fettuccine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  After carefully cutting the dough into long, thin fettuccine, we laid it gently on a clean towel to dry, then went down into the cellar to select a dinner wine. J.L. seemed to be seeking a particular bottle, going through several of the dusty, musty bins.

  "I think,” he said, holding up a bottle so covered with dust that the label was unreadable, "To have great Italian food and drink anything other than Italian wine would be sacrilegious, don't you?"

  "If you have anything not wrapped in a straw basket,” I offered, still amazed at all the old wine in the cellar.

  J.L. put the bottle back in its resting-place and moved to another bin. "Here,” he said excitedly. "Here's what I'm looking for." He gently lifted a dark bottle and set it carefully on a table. "This is a Brunello di Montalcino, from the Siena hills of the Tuscany area. It's made by the Biondi Santi family." J.L. stepped back and looked at the bottle. "They leave it on the wood for five years."

  Brunello wines were not my forte. They had always been too rare and too expensive for me to indulge in. "What's the vintage?" I asked, unable to see the label.

  J.L. took a cloth rag and carefully wiped the bottle clean without moving it from the table. "Nineteen forty-five. I'll be willing to bet it's still a baby. They often take fifty years of aging in the bottle before reaching their peak. We must decant it now and let it breathe as long as we can before dinner."

  He poured the wine with the aid of a candle, leaving a good two inches of sediment in the bottle. We went back upstairs, carrying the decanted wine, and started the water boiling to cook the pasta.

  While J.L. prepared his sauce, I talked with Kathleen, who appeared to be as healthy as anyone else, only I knew she wasn't. She wanted to know if I planned to return to Rockland after this mess with the murders was finished. I said I hoped so, because this was such wonderful country. Complementing her on the beautiful table caused her to blush.

  "The sauce is just about ready,” J.L. announced from the kitchen. "By the time Jay pours the dinner wine, it will be."

  Soon J.L. entered the room. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Fettuccine Verdi con Gamberetti."

  It was delicious. A green, spinach pasta with shrimp in a heavy cream, lots of milled pepper, garlic, and rich, heart-stopping butter.

  J.L. was right, the Brunello was astounding. An intense ruby-red color with orange tints indicating the age. Dry and tannic, with a warm, robust, and lively taste which was mellow and velvet on the mouth. Finally, an aftertaste lasting forever.

  "Well, Mr. Chamberlain, you have once again made an humble man feel as if he's dined with royalty." I lifted my glass.

  "It's one of our favorite meals,” Kathleen spoke up, smiling. "Although, I must admit, the wine list does improve when you come to dinner, Jay."

  Watching her, I remembered how little she ate the last time. Tonight she ate what was on her plate and drank an entire glass of the luscious Brunello.

  Soon after dinner, Kathleen excused herself, saying she was tired. "I know you two want to discuss business. I'm going to bed. Good night, Jay. Do come again."

  J.L. escorted Kathleen upstairs. Sipping the Brunello, I was amazed as it got better with each taste.

  "Probably should have opened it yesterday,” J.L. suddenly said, from behind me. "Some of the younger vintages are reputed to need twenty-four hours of breathing to fully open.

  "It's an amazing wine." I held the opaque liquid up to a candle. "Thanks for sharing this with me."

  "I'm enjoying your appreciation. In this part of the country it is a rare occurrence to meet someone with a knowledge of wine. It has been several years since we've opened some good bottles. Now,” he said, beaming. "I have some old cognac for us to try. Did you bring any of those big cigars of yours?"

  "I'm never without them."

  "Good. Let's get the bottle and go up on the deck. You can tell me what's on your mind."

  Following J.L. up to the big square deck on the roof of Owl's Head, I found the view even better than imagined. Smaller trees to the south and east did not obstruct the view. Sparkling like tiny diamonds, lights twinkled on Vinal Haven and Isle Au Haut. To the south, Tenant's Harbor and Port Clyde blinked like beacons on a dark sea. The sky was clear and the stars seemed so close that you could reach up and pluck one from among the billions.

  We were silent for awhile. Then J.L. said quietly, "It is nice, isn't it?"

  Sitting back in the Adirondack chair and propping my feet up on the railing, I sai
d, "Truly, J.L. I'd probably spend all my time on this balcony if I lived at Owl's Head."

  "Kathleen and I do, every spare moment, when the weather is right." He looked far out to sea.

  I knew he was thinking about death. "Tell me about the cognac?" I asked, hoping to lighten the moment.

  "Ah,” he said, holding up the bottle. "I think you'll enjoy this. It's fifty years old...” He paused to see if I got the implication.

  Sitting up in the chair, I asked, "You mean it's a fifty year old cognac, or you've had it fifty years?"

  "Right on both counts,” he said, delighted. "Oh, it's been in the cellar longer than fifty years, but the notes I have say it was 'early-landed' in London, kept in barrel by customs for fifty years before being bought by my namesake, who bottled and shipped it to this cellar."

  "Amazing," was all I could think of to say.

  The pale old cognac was gentle, exquisite, and faintly sweet with a finesse to please the gods. To light a cigar would interfere with the delicate nuances of the aroma. But then...

  "So what's on your mind?" J.L. asked after we sipped on the wine for awhile.

  Rolling the cigar between my fingers, I watched the glowing end turn to ash. "Guy Robbins called today. He checked into Sandy and Nat's financial situation. It turns out they are broke. Sandy paid Guy five hundred thousand cash for an art collection he was handling in an estate sale. She could have gotten that money from many different places. Still..."

  Chamberlain sniffed the cognac and didn't say anything.

  "The Hansa Jet was chartered by a young woman in Houston, Texas. The crew landed in New Orleans, where the Kent collection was off-loaded. The passenger remained aboard, flew back to Houston with them.

  J.L. twirled the brown liquid around in the glass, looked up into the starlit sky. "Anastasio's trying to set her up. He is aware of their finances, and flew the collection to where Sandy is, will probably plant the gun used in the shootings, also."

  Breathing deeply, I was relieved Chamberlain had arrived at that conclusion.

  "Jay,” he said, standing up and leaning on a rail. "What's his motive?"

  "That's the problem. I don't have a clue."

  A light wind whispered through the trees. Far out to sea, on the dim horizon, a ship worked its way south against the Gulf Stream. An owl hooted in the distance. A car horn blew far away. Silence settled in on the roof of Owl's Head, broken only by the crackle of cigars burning Connecticut seed wrapper.

  "Have you thought about Sandy being our killer?" J.L. asked softly.

  It was a fair question. One which I had contemplated more than once.

  "Why would she hire me? You think maybe it was a front? Could be possible." Pausing, I let the hard facts work their way through my thoughts. "Seems we have limited possibilities. Anastasio, whose motive we know not, or Sandy, who would have had to hate her brother an awful lot to blow a hole in his brain for money. Then there is Captain Barstein and his wife, Annie, and something we haven't discussed thoroughly, Mabel and Bowers."

  "Yes, Mabel and my Sergeant."

  "She left town all of a sudden. Maybe she and Bowers have a thing worked out. You said he was the first on the scene. Maybe he took the money and used it to gain favor with the lady."

  J.L. took a long pull on the cigar, blew the smoke out, knocked the ashes off the end, and glanced at me. "I like the way you think Leicester. I'm still checking to see if Mabel's mother did, in fact, die. We should know by tomorrow. I have my eye on Sergeant Bowers. You can bank on it."

  "What about Captain Barstein?"

  "He better not make any major improvements to the Moma C. in the next few weeks."

  Sooner or later everything comes to an end. So it was with the great cognac, cigar, and the view from the rooftop of Owl's Head.

  J.L. walked me out to my car. "We'll talk tomorrow. Don't worry, this thing will work itself out."

  "You bet. Thanks for the food and wine. Be sure to tell Kathleen good night for me."

  Easing the car slowly out the winding lane, I turned onto the main road leading back to Rockland. Driving on the narrow, two-lane pavement, and deep in thought, I almost did not see the jogger. If he hadn't been wearing a red reflecting vest, I might not have. He was dressed in a blue running suit, which reminded me of the one Anastasio wore, a sweatband, and a fisherman's wool cap. Easing over toward the center of the road so as not to force the jogger off the pavement, he waved a 'thank you' as we passed each other.

  A half-mile further down the dark road, I suddenly slammed on the brakes, skidding onto the shoulder. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, my foot shook on the brake pedal as dust settled around the car. The engine stalled and made soft pinging noises as it cooled.

  Small-disconnected facts, if you take note of them, have a way of becoming connected. Leaning back in the seat, I tilted my head as far back as it would go against the headrest. "I know who did it", I said, aloud. "I know who did it".

  Suddenly becoming aware of a dangerously fast pounding in my chest, I sensed a familiar, bitter taste explode in my mouth, an acrid sensation. This had happened before, during battles with ugly weather while flying airplanes. But now it wasn't thunderstorms in dark nights, or fighting heavy ice in mountainous terrain that brought the taste. It was the knowledge of senseless murder by evil people.

  * * *

  I had been sitting in the same position for four hours. Only once had I gotten out to stretch and get the blood flowing. The small parking lot was deserted. The waters of the bay had an eerie calm. Fog drifted in silver, ghost-like tendrils along the tree line across the inlet.

  It was of no use to drive back to the Navigator Inn. I could never have slept anyway. So I had turned around and driven back down to the Port Clyde docks. Here in the cold of the night, I sat watching the dawn come slowly, almost sneaking up on the world. Boats anchored out in the middle of the bay emerged dimly from the blackness.

  Hearing the boat long before it appeared, the purring of a small outboard engine disturbed the silence of the stealthy dawn. The boat drew swiftly up to the dock. A lone figure expertly tied lines to cleats and started up the wooden pier. It has always amazed me how people who live and work on the sea use small skiffs and boats much the same way we use automobiles.

  Getting out of the car, I stepped into a darkness scented by damp sea and the acrid smell of rotting trash fish from the seafood factory across the bay. It is an odor I could never grow used to.

  The figure did not see me until I was within a few feet. "Who the hell are you?" The voice asked, startled and defensive.

  Catching sight of her face as she emerged from the dark into the dim light on the dock, it appeared welted, almost ugly. A rope of muscle twisted her black eyebrows into a Vee shape. Her cheek was pulled back, and freckles spotted dark against pale skin.

  "Annie,” I said softly. "It's Jay Leicester, the private investigator."

  "Oh, thank heaven,” she said, holding a hand up to her throat, exhaling sharply. "You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here at this time of the morning?" She stepped fully into the light and it lifted the shadows from her face and erased its appearance of old age.

  "There are some things I need to see in the chandlery. It can't wait."

  "Things in the chandlery, at five o'clock in the morning?" She took a hard look at me. "Hey, wait a minute, man. You ain't no weirdo or something?"

  "No, Annie,” I said slowly, attempting to calm her. She was uneasy, and I could appreciate her reasoning. "There is nothing funny going on, I assure you. It has to do with the two murders."

  "Okay, but people will be here at any moment."

  Following her across the worn, wooden planking to the rear of the chandlery, I held the screen door while she unlocked the big, solid, wooden door. Taking one last look at me, she went inside. There was something sad about her. Even her relieved smile suggested some deep disappointment in life; opportunities lost that could not be forgotten.

  A
t the wooden table where the fishermen sat and played their board game, smoked cigars and wonderful old pipes, talked of the sea, and made fun of landlubbers, Annie pulled a long chain. The light was only a naked bulb and dim, but it gave her comfort. She seemed to relax some, being in familiar surroundings.

  Walking toward the front of the barn-like structure, she removed her peacoat and wool cap. Turning slightly, her head moved part way out of the naked light so that her face became divided like a Picasso painting. Her illuminated side still showed a stern distrust. Turning again, she looked at me with fixed attention. Her eyes were like the bores of a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun. "What is it you need to see that's so all fired important, Mr. Leicester?" She turned on more naked light bulbs, never taking her eyes off me.

  It was cool in the chandlery. I could see both our breaths when we exhaled. "How do you ever get this building warm?" I asked, rubbing my hands together, hunching my shoulders up around my neck. Even with the old leather flight jacket on, it was nippy in here.

  Annie looked at me with an incredulous expression. To someone who lived in Maine and made her living from open boats on icy, wind swept seas, it must have sounded like a stupid question.

  After eyeing me without saying anything for perhaps thirty seconds, Annie put her hands on her hips, squared her shoulders, and jutted a prominent chin at me. "What the devil you want here, man?"

  "The first time we met, the day I showed the photographs of the two men who were killed, you said Nat Rinaldi bought some things here at the chandlery."

  "Yes, I remember. So what?" She did not move, only stared. Did I see it in her dark northern eyes, a spark of fury? Directed at whom?

  Moving toward the long, flat, tables where merchandise was neatly arranged, I said, "You think real hard about what he bought. Try to remember each item."

  Working my way around the tables, picking up wool mittens and caps, I could not find what I was looking for. "Please, Annie, this is important. What did he buy?"