Blind Overlook

by JC Simmons

  "I'm working on it,” I lied. "Chamberlain called. I'm going to meet with him later. Can I do anything for you?"

  "No, thanks. I just want to rest. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

  "Chamberlain's expecting me at six-thirty. I'll check on you when I get back."

  Hanging up, I sat down hard on the bed feeling exhausted. Doing nothing the rest of the afternoon would be a welcome interlude.

  * * *

  Finding Chamberlain's house was not a problem. It sat high on a hill at the end of a narrow, winding lane. Located on a promontory south of Rockland called Owl's Head, the house was a two story Victorian with a square balcony on the roof. A broad porch ran around the house, adorned with big square columns. Rocking chairs and swings were spaced appropriately along the wide veranda.

  Shutting the engine off, I got out and looked at the huge water oaks and old growth fir trees standing thick on the hill. They did not completely hide a tremendous view of the Atlantic Ocean fifty yards down the slope behind the house. The view from the rooftop balcony must be breathtaking.

  Very nice, I thought, standing quietly in the silence, not wanting to disturb the peacefulness.

  The house was brightly lighted and, as I walked up on the porch, a faint, woeful strain of music wafted on the night breeze. It was hauntingly familiar.

  Chamberlain met me at the door. He seemed rested and relaxed. Standing behind him, at the bottom of a curved staircase, was a most beautiful lady. She had lightly grayed auburn hair, a rounded, angelic face with a gracious smile. She wore a blue suede dress with a soft, pleated skirt. A simple bodice with a rounded neckline fitting smoothly against her slender neck was accented by her only jewelry, an elegant, three strand pearl necklace. She was a rather small woman who gave off a warm aura. J.L. had said she was seriously ill but, at least to me, she looked the picture of health.

  Chamberlain introduced her with obvious affection and pride. She came forward and extended a friendly, firm handshake. I complimented her on her dress and pearls.

  Kathleen fingered the pearls with embarrassment. "J.L. gave them to me on our tenth wedding anniversary," she said, shyly, proudly, looking up at him. "They've been handed down to the Chamberlain women for generations. His mother had them last, God rest her soul."

  "Well, they are beautiful, and they look wonderful on you." I patted her hand.

  Chamberlain walked to a small table where drinks were already poured. "Here," he said, handing us each a small flute-shaped glass. "It's a custom of our family to welcome you to Owl's Head with a drink of century old sherry from our own cellar." He raised his glass. "Saludé."

  The dark, thick sherry was so good I wanted to get on my knees with my head bowed.

  Chamberlain observed my reaction and told me about the sherry. His great, great grandfather shipped it over from Spain shortly after the Civil War. A hogshead, a half-sized barrel of about sixty-six gallons, had been in the cellar of the house, undisturbed, since it was put there in eighteen sixty-eight. It was still about half full.

  This was impressive.

  Chamberlain asked Kathleen if he could help with anything in the kitchen.

  "I've already set the table, only thing left is the salad." Then to me she said, "We don't have much company, Mr. Leicester. I've been excited all day, since J.L. told me you were coming. It will be nice to have someone to talk with."

  Kathleen disappeared into the kitchen.

  Chamberlain took me by the arm. "Come, Jay, let me show you the rest of the house."

  The elegiac music still played softly in the background.

  "What's the name of the song?" I asked, pointing at the ceiling, as if that was where the music originated.

  Chamberlain laughed. "It's part of Owl's Head tradition. The music is original scores from the Civil War. Lorena is the one playing at the moment."

  "Yes, of course."

  Chamberlain continued, answering the question mark on my face. "You see,” he said, waving his arm around the room. "Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, my great, great grandfather, was a Civil War hero. He fought at a small, rocky hill called Little Round Top during the Battle of Gettysburg. Wounded six times, he was brevetted Major General for heroism at Five Forks. He was chosen by General Grant from all other northern officers to have the honor of receiving the Southern surrender at Appomattox. He was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his day at Little Round Top. Later, he ran for governor of Maine, and was elected to three terms.

  "After his political career, he went on to be president of Bowdoin College. He was president there when he retired. He died in June of 1914, at age eighty-three. This was his home. So you see, the music must be played."

  I did not want to fight the Civil War again with Chamberlain. But in a slack moment of my life, I read Shelby Foote's three volume, one million six hundred thousand word history of that sad war. Nowhere do I remember mention of a Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain. I would look it up when I got back to Rebel country.

  "Well,” I said grinning, raising both arms in surrender. "Lorena was a southern song."

  "Yes,” he laughed, bowing graciously. "I'm aware of its origin. But no more of the Civil War. I only wanted you to know the history of Owl's Head, and why I can afford to live here. It's all inherited, with a big trust fund to boot. Wouldn't want you to think I might be in need of an extra four hundred and fifty thousand to keep it up."

  "The thought had crossed my mind,” I said smiling. "But after meeting Kathleen I dismissed it. Such a wonderful woman wouldn't put up with a crook."

  "Thank you,” he said seriously. "She's the most important thing in the world to me."

  Chamberlain showed me the rest of the downstairs. After the tour, we went out back of the house. The yard was green, with big trees standing like sentinels, guarding the grandeur of Owl's Head. The sea lapped at a narrow, sandy beach in a small cove at the bottom of the yard.

  "Your wife looks in such good health, J.L.,” I said, my curiosity getting the better of my manners. "What exactly is wrong with her? If you don't mind my asking?"

  He looked at me with sad eyes. "No, I don't mind. Kathleen has melanoma. It has spread to the liver. She's been suffering with this damnable disease for six years. They thought it was in check after the first round of chemo, radiation therapy, and interferon treatment. It was, for three years. Then six months ago it returned with a vengeance. The second round of chemo isn't working, although we're talking daily with the people down in Houston, Texas, at the M.D. Anderson Cancer Research Center. They're mixing up different soups everyday. Anderson is the center for melanoma treatment in the U.S. They keep giving us hope, not wanting us to give up."

  "There's always hope, J.L.,” I said, feeling helpless in the company of such despair.

  "I'm a realist, Jay." He leaned his head back, gazed skyward. "It's not working this time around."

  I could see the hurt in Chamberlain's face, feel the pain in his voice.

  "Bill Reinbold, the doctor you met at the hospital, is a good friend of ours,” he continued. "We depend on him to tell us the truth. And he does. Kathleen only has a couple of months."

  It was hard, cold, ugly facts. J.L. and his wife deserved to know the truth. If it were me, I would sure want to know.

  "My sympathies, J.L.,” I said, meaning every syllable.

  We walked down the slope to the water's edge.

  "If it wasn't for the pain...” Chamberlain said, looking far out to sea. "I can't bear to see her in pain."

  An old saying, something about death's extreme disgrace, that monster called pain, flashed through my mine, but it didn't seem an appropriate quote at the moment. "I'm sorry, J.L. I truly am sorry."

  Chamberlain looked at me. "She has such a determined will to fight that the recurrence of this disease is almost untenable for me."

  There was nothing I could think of to say. I stared out towards Africa.

  Chamberlain slapped me on the back. "Enough of this. I do appreciate you asking
. It should do her good to have company. Let's go build a fire in the grill. How do you like your steak?"

  "Still moving,” I said, suddenly having a great deal more admiration for one Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, great, great grandson of a Civil War hero.

  While the coals burned down to grilling temperature Chamberlain took me into the basement of the house. Sitting in the middle of the huge room was the hogshead of sherry. It lay in old, hand-hewn blocks, shaped like a cradle. The head of the barrel was elegantly carved with the words: SACAR SANLUCAR de BARRAMELA OLOROSO, around the edge of the barrel. Grapes and vines and vineyard workers adorned the center of the carving.

  Along three walls of the brick cellar were square bins filled with wine bottles. There must have been two hundred cases of wine lying quietly in this old, cool cellar. I looked in disbelief at Chamberlain.

  He smiled and shrugged. "Most of it came with the house. I noticed you appreciated the wine we had at dinner last night. Thought you'd like to see this. I try adding to the cellar from time to time, but it's hard and expensive in this part of the country. The trust fund is only enough to keep Owl's Head in good repair, not a lot extra for replenishing the cellar."

  It would have been a pleasure to spend a whole day looking through the wine bottles; some covered with half an inch of dust.

  Chamberlain picked up a bottle of champagne. "Here,” he said, handing it to me. "Let's sip on this while we're cooking. I have something special to open for dinner. We'll decant it about half an hour before we eat."

  We took the already cool bottle of champagne up to the living room. Chamberlain sat it in an ice bucket and retrieved three champagne flutes from a cabinet full of cut glass.

  Sneaking a peek at the bottle on the way up from the cellar, I saw that it had no label.

  Chamberlain called for Kathleen. She appeared from somewhere toward the rear of the house.

  "Oh,” she said, seeing the champagne. "You must be a wine person, Mr. Leicester. J.L. rarely opens the good stuff."

  "Well, I'm flattered, and no more of this mister stuff, okay?"

  "Okay,” she answered, nodding.

  The champagne rated alongside the sherry. It had a deep straw gold color with tiny bubbles racing to the top of the glass. A yeasty, toasty nose with damp straw odors indicated great age. Dry and fruity on the palate, it was perfectly balanced with a good finish.

  "Outstanding,” I said, admiring the wine, holding the glass up to the light. "What is it, and where can I get some?"

  Chamberlain sat his glass on the table and picked up the dark bottle. "I honestly don't know what house made this wine. It was never labeled. I do know two things about it, though. It is from France, and the year 1911 is etched on the bottle."

  "It's a rare treat,” I said, raising my glass to him. "Thank you for sharing this. You're not going to do this with the dinner wine, are you?"

  "No,” he laughed, setting the bottle back on the table and picking up his champagne flute. "I promise. The label's still on the one I've selected for dinner, which we'd better decant now. We eat in thirty minutes, my dear,” he said to Kathleen.

  We went back to the cellar. Chamberlain set a dusty bottle on the wooden table before we went upstairs to open the champagne. He lit a candle and gently picked up that same bottle. "Here,” he said, holding it so I could see the label. "What do you think this will be like?"

  The label was covered with dust and mostly eaten away. But I could clearly make out, Chateau Lafite, 1875. This was astounding. The wine was almost a hundred and thirty years old. There was no ullage, and a perfect wax seal. Sitting my champagne glass on the table, my attention was riveted on the Lafite.

  "You really want to do this, J.L.?" I heard myself saying. "It's probably way over the hill. It would surely bring a lot of money at auction."

  "Hog wash,” Chamberlain said, carefully removing the wax seal. "Wine is to be drunk, enjoyed. Not sold."

  "Still..."

  "There were six bottles originally,” he said, ignoring my comment. "I've opened one before. I think you'll be surprised."

  Holding the decanter while Chamberlain poured the wine over the candle flame, I noticed when he was finished that there was almost two inches of sediment remaining in the bottle. The cork was in perfect shape. The wine in the decanter had a deep garnet color.

  "We'd better get the steaks cooking,” Chamberlain said, handing me the decanter. "We don't want this to breathe too long. Take it up to Kathleen. I'll put the meat on."

  Obeying like a child, I sneaked a smell on the way. There was not a whiff of decay.

  Refilling my champagne glass, I noticed Kathleen had not drunk any of hers. Carrying the bottle out back to where Chamberlain was grilling the meat, I also noticed that there were only two steaks on the grill.

  He saw me looking. "Kathleen won't eat meat. It's the chemo, throws off her taste."

  "Understood,” I said, refilling his glass.

  The steaks were perfect. And the wine! The bouquet, closed at first, developed quickly in the glass. It had a delicate fruit, with a rich warm wholemeal-bisquit character, which, to me, is the essence of the finest claret, as it blossoms in the glass. It was slightly sweet, lightish, rich but soft, with a silky texture in the mouth. There was a delicate acidity on the aftertaste. Again, I wanted to get on my knees.

  "The meat was too much for the wine,” Chamberlain said, holding his glass up to a candle. "Should have tasted this with no food."

  He was right, but I wasn't complaining. Kathleen, bless her heart, only sipped at hers.

  After dinner Kathleen showed me the prints she had framed of Rockwell Kent. There were six from a set issued with his book, GREENLAND JOURNAL. They were enclosed in black wood with red matting. The one Chamberlain said was his favorite, PEACE ON EARTH was nice. Another, showing an Eskimo boy carrying a huge bird across his back, appealed to me. He obviously had just slain the bird and was proudly returning home with his quarry. Kent had titled it, SMALL BOY and BIG BIRD.

  "They are beautiful, aren't they?" She said, looking fondly at the prints.

  "Yes. Excellent lithographs,” I said, as if I was an expert.

  Kathleen laughed, patted me on the arm. "Here,” she said, handing me two books. "If you want to learn about Kent, these will inform you. One is his autobiography, the other is a catalogue of his work."

  Looking at the titles, I saw that the autobiography was, IT'S ME O'LORD; the other, THE PRINTS OF ROCKWELL KENT, by Dan Burne Jones. Thanking her, I promised to return them tomorrow.

  "No hurry, Jay,” she said softly, taking me by the arm. "Take your time, enjoy them."

  Declining Chamberlain's offer for dessert wine, I'd had enough greatness for one night, I said that I wanted to get started reading about Rockwell Kent.

  Preparing to leave, I thanked Kathleen for everything and told her the music, it had been the Civil War tunes all evening, was very pleasant.

  "Yes,” she said, looking deeply into my eyes. "The songs of that war do convey powerful emotions. I'm truly glad you enjoyed them."

  Sitting in the car for a moment before starting the engine, I looked at J.L. and Kathleen Chamberlain standing on the porch of Owl's Head on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean in a far northern state called Maine. It was a moment I would long remember.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Back at the Navigator Inn, I knocked on Sandy's door. She opened it slightly, then all the way. In the dim light of the room she appeared a truly beautiful young woman. Her blond hair flowed down around her shoulders like an island waterfall. But all I could see was Kathleen Chamberlain's face. A face with only a few months of life.

  "I'm not leaving,” I said, gripping the door handle for support.

  "What?" Sandy asked, looking up at me, puzzled.

  "There is no way that I can leave Chamberlain with two unsolved murders,” I said, tightening my grip on the handle. "The man needs my help. If you don't want me to continue working for you, then I'll stay and look into them
on my own."

  Sandy reached over and turned on the overhead light. She was silent for a moment. Then: "You're right. I guess I wanted to flee from this place where Renato was killed. Yes, I want you to stay." She was silent again for a few seconds. "But I've got to go back to New Orleans. The Gallery needs to be opened. Plans must be made to finalize the purchase of the Moran collection with Guy Robbins. There are other deals in the works. I need to leave tomorrow."

  "Certainly,” I said, releasing the door handle, a little confused. She had mentioned nothing about shipping Nat's body back for burial. "I'll drive you over to Augusta in the morning for a flight out to Boston. When I get back to my room, I'll see what kind of connection we can make from Boston."

  "Great,” she said, sounding relieved. "You'll call me every day, keep me abreast of what you find?"

  "Agreed."

  We stood in silence some few moments.

  "What about the remains, Sandy?" I asked, gently. "You want them shipped back to New Orleans?"

  She turned her head slightly, wiped away a tear. The question needed asking.

  "Will you handle it for me, Jay? Please?" She leaned against the wall, her voice shaky.

  "I'll call you for the details as soon as the autopsy is finished. Everything will be taken care of, it's part of what I get paid to do."

  "Thank you,” Sandy said, sniffling. "You're a big help. I appreciate it."

  Leaving Sandy in her room, I took the two books on Rockwell Kent and prepared for a long night of reading.

  Sliding my glass doors open allowed a sea breeze to blow refreshing, cool, salt air into the room. A Delta Airlines agent confirmed that a regional airline left Augusta, Maine, at ten a.m., connecting with their flight to New Orleans. I booked Sandy a first class, one way ticket.

  Sitting back in my chair, I thought about Nat Rinaldi. Whatever he had stumbled into, or fell victim of, it wasn't getting him a first class ticket home. I intended to find out exactly why.

  * * *

  It was near dawn when I finally dosed off. Rockwell Kent led a fascinating life. He was the consummate artist. The man never did anything in his life which was not artistic.

  Politically, Kent believed in the rights of the individual, and used his art to that end. Subpoenaed to appear before the McCarthy committee in 1953 at age seventy-one, he was not intimidated by Joe McCarthy and took the Fifth Amendment on the question of belonging to the Communist Party. He had never been a member and considered it nobody's business whether he was or not.