Blind Overlook

by JC Simmons

  "Wonder what he meant when he said he admired some things you did, others he didn't?"

  "What?" I asked, coming back from my thoughts. "Oh, at my thoroughness at some things, neglect of others. I don't know. I'm sure it wasn't meant as a compliment."

  "Probably not."

  We rode in silence, again.

  The weather had warmed. The sky was now a cobalt blue. You could feel spring in the air. The ride back to Rockland was good, both coming and going. J.L. dropped me off at the Navigator Inn. He was going home to check on his wife and would call me later in the afternoon.

  Henry flagged me down as I walked into the lobby. "Mr. Leicester, my sister's made a pot of chowder. Have you had lunch?"

  The chowder was comparable to that at the East Wind Inn when I first ate there with Sandy. Suddenly that lunch seemed a long time ago.

  While dining on the chowder Henry gave me three messages which had come in this morning. One was from Guy Robbins and one was from Sandy. The last message was from Charlie Garino of Aeroair saying he would be in his office the rest of the afternoon and would be expecting my call.

  Even though I was anxious to make the phone calls, Henry's sister's chowder was too good not to have seconds.

  Henry kept me company. We talked about Maine, the weather, and about his sister. He never came right out and said it, but I got the impression he wanted me to ask her out. She was a pleasant enough woman, but there was no way. Mabel was still too much of a presence.

  Excusing myself, I went to my room, checking it carefully. Nothing had been bothered. Maybe Anastasio had found out all he wanted the last time his 'people' were here.

  As was his custom, Guy Robbins was out of his office. His secretary was emphatic that Guy wanted to talk with me today. Telling her where I'd be, I hung up, wondering what the urgency was about.

  Sandy's answering service said she was gone for the day. Leaving her a message saying we had met with Anastasio, I promised to call her tomorrow and fill her in on the details.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The mid-afternoon ferry was leaving for North Haven and Vinalhaven islands. Sea birds followed behind a fishing boat, squawking, diving, and fighting for a morsel of food to sustain life another day. Far out to sea the horizon was sharp, and well defined against a light blue sky.

  The phone rang. I went inside and picked up the receiver. "Leicester, here."

  "Glad I caught you,” the familiar voice said. "Sorry I've been missing you, but it's been hectic down here."

  "Hello, Guy." I sat down on the edge of the bed. "What's all the urgency about? Your secretary sounded as if it were important?"

  "Don't know how important, but I thought you should know as soon as possible."

  "Alright, let's have it."

  "When Sandy bought the Moran art collection, she paid with cash."

  "I understand that's not so unusual in the art world. Where does this lead, Guy?"

  "I'm not sure. Remember me telling you that Sandy and her brother were worth more money than you and I would ever see. When she paid in cash and hired me to handle Nat's estate, something told me to check their current financial standing. I found out Sandy's broke."

  Gripping the phone tightly, I did not say anything. My mind was reeling.

  "She and Nat made some bad real estate investments. They had a huge stake in an insurance company that went belly up in New Orleans. They lost a total of eleven million in two years."

  "Not the insurance company that brought down the Insurance Commissioner and the Lieutenant Governor?"

  "One and the same. Hard to believe, isn't it? The crooks who ran the company took a lot of good people for their hard earned money."

  "Sounds like something truly fishy went down. Maybe one crook stealing from the others."

  "Could be,” Guy said with a sigh. "I don't know if it means anything, but I felt you should know. Sandy could have had a half million stashed away, trying to rebuild by using that money to buy the Moran collection and reselling it for a good profit."

  "Or what else?"

  "I won't make any assumptions, but put these figures in the back of your head. Nat had a double indemnity life insurance policy worth three million. The half million in cash missing from his person in Maine was insured. That's right, it was insured. If someone collected on Nat's life insurance, plus the insurance on the cash, and had stolen the cash in the first place...it comes out to a pretty good sum. Something for you to think about."

  "You've made my day, Guy. I do appreciate it, though. Thanks." We hung up.

  Going back out on the balcony, I sat down to think this through.

  Sandy and Nat made some bad investments and lost a bundle. So what, lots of people lose fortunes. Sandy paid Guy Robbins a half million in cash for the Moran art collection. The same amount, give or take a few thousand, missing from Nat Rinaldi. Does this make Sandy guilty of two murders? A good possibility, but where's the motive? Half a million plus the insurance money and the art collection is plenty enough motive by some people's way of thinking, but to kill your own brother for money...

  Leaning over the balcony, I watched a ferry slide slowly into the dock. People started lining up like ants. They were all in a row, shuffling, bumping; wanting to get home for dinner, to the wives and kids.

  Familial killings have taken place since time began, and for a lot less than what was involved in this case. Sandy Rinaldi was starting to climb up the guilty ladder to the same rung as some locals, and Gino Anastasio.

  Pacing around the small balcony like a bear in a cage, I tried to make some sense out of this. I sat down, stood back up. Anastasio! The S.O.B. is smart. He is setting Sandy up. He has the resources to know her finances. He has had her tailed since she left Rockland, maybe long before. Also, the main player in the failed insurance company was reputed to have strong ties with the mob. Where is that Rockwell Kent art collection?

  Going back inside, I punched in Charlie Garino's number at Aeroair in Houston, Texas. Little did I realize that this phone call would be the turning point in solving two murders, locating the Rockwell Kent art collection, and revealing who had possession of four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in blood money.

  "Charlie Garino, please. My name is Jay Leicester."

  "Oh yes, Mr. Leicester, Mr. Garino is expecting your call. Please hold for a moment."

  "Thank you." I paced around the edge of the bed as far as the telephone cord would reach.

  "Hello, Mr. Leicester,” a deep voice said. "John Ashley told me you'd call. How can I help you?"

  Skipping the usual formalities, I went right to the point. "I need to know if one of your Hansa Jets flew a charter to Rockland, Maine, on the sixteenth of this month?"

  "That shouldn't be a problem,” he said in an accommodating tone. "If I can get this computer terminal to work, the information should pop right up." Keys clicked, then I heard Garino utter an oath. "Mr. Leicester, the screen went blank. I'm sorry, I'm still a stick and rudder man when it comes to computers. Hang on a minute, I'll get Betty to find the information for us."

  "I understand."

  It was a minute or more before Garino came back on the line. "Sorry for the delay. I have the information I think you're looking for."

  "Great." I grabbed a pen. "Go ahead, I'm ready to copy."

  "We did have a charter on the sixteenth in the Hansa Jet. A good one, I might add. They paid in cash. The flight plan reads: Houston Hobby direct Rockland, Maine, with a fuel stop in Richmond, Virginia. A quick turn around in Rockland, then back to Richmond, direct New Orleans Lakefront, then on in to Houston Hobby. Flight time was seven point five hours, one passenger all the way around. A twelve hour day for the crew, but legal with the FARs." (Federal Aviation Regulations regarding flight and duty time for crewmembers in a given period.)

  "Did the passenger originate in Houston with the airplane?"

  "Yes,” Garino answered. "Remained aboard the entire round trip."

  "I need to know ab
out the passenger. Is the Captain of that flight available?"

  "Let me check." He lay the phone down, and I paced the floor. He was not gone long. "The pilot who flew the trip is on his way to Anchorage, Alaska. He'll be gone for over a week."

  "How about the copilot?"

  "Let me see who that was...yes, Felicia. She's in the back right now, flight planning a trip to Denver. Hold on, I'll get her for you."

  "Thanks, Charlie. You've been a lot of help."

  "Any friend of John Ashley's is a friend of mine."

  "Felicia Markham,” a soft voice said.

  "Hello, Miss Markham. My name is Jay Leicester. I'm a private investigator looking into two murders that occurred in Rockland, Maine, around the time you flew a charter up here. Tell me everything you can about the passenger, the cargo, or anything else you remember about the flight."

  "I remember it being a long day,” she said, laughing. "It was the longest trip I've ever flown, and the first time I'd been north of New York. Our passenger was a woman around my age, I'm twenty-four. She was very quiet. Come to think of it, she never did introduce herself. She paid in advance for the charter, almost fifteen thousand dollars." She paused, as if searching for something else to say.

  "Describe her for me,” I prodded. "Was she tall, short? What color was her hair? How much did she weigh?"

  "She had blond hair. She was much taller then me, I'm five-six. I'd guess she weighed around one-ten, one-twenty. That's about all I remember."

  "That's okay. Tell me about the cargo, Miss Markham. Who loaded it on board?"

  "When we got to Rockland, I went to file a flight plan. Didn't pay much attention to what was going on around the aircraft. I do remember a van pulling alongside, though. There were no other people. When I got back to the aircraft, the cabin was full of stuff that looked like paintings, all sorts of frames and things. I did a quick walk around, climbed aboard, and shut the door. We took off for Richmond, Virginia, our fuel stop. The captain said that he hoped our passenger left room to sit in the cabin. The cargo was bulky, but light. He wasn't concerned with the weight."

  "What happened when you got to New Orleans?"

  "I saw to the refueling. The linemen helped unload the cargo. They were taking it inside the hangar. I couldn't see what they were doing with it. We were ready to depart in half an hour."

  "So your passenger did fly back to Houston with you?"

  "Yes, sir. We landed back at Hobby around three a.m. The passenger just disappeared. Strange."

  "Yes, Miss. Markham, I tend to agree with you."

  "My goodness, did she have something to do with the murders? I'd hate to think we were flying around a killer."

  "She probably had nothing to do with them." Trying to allay her fears, I said, "She was probably a courier hired to transport the cargo to New Orleans."

  "Thank goodness." She sounded relieved. "Mr. Leicester, I've really got to run. I hope I've been some help."

  "You have. I'll tell Mr. Garino you were more than cooperative. Good-bye."

  Walking back out on the balcony, I saw that dark was falling fast. The first stars of the evening were visible far out on the ocean. Glancing at the piece of paper I was holding, I saw that I had unconsciously written the flight plan Charlie Garino had given me in the shorthand of pilots: HOB > RIC > RKD > RIC > NEW > HOB. Houston Hobby direct to Richmond, Virginia; direct to Rockland, Maine; direct to Richmond, Virginia; direct New Orleans Lakefront airport; direct Houston Hobby airport.

  Holding it up to the light coming from the room, I read it again and again. If Gino Anastasio was setting up Sandy Rinaldi to take the fall for the murders, the theft of the money, and the art collection, then I would be willing to bet the .9mm pistol used in the shootings would turn up in New Orleans along with the art collection. He could have hired the female mole, who looked like Sandy, to charter the aircraft and fly the Kent collection to New Orleans. It was a clever scenario, if it were true.

  The thing that I didn't have was a motive. Why would someone as powerful as Anastasio go to all this trouble and expense to cover a single hit on someone as insignificant as Tony Bilotti?

  It would be bothering Chamberlain, but I had to run this by him, tonight. He answered on the first ring. "J.L., am I disturbing Kathleen?"

  "No. As a matter of fact, we were talking about you. She's feeling quite well. We were thinking of making some fresh fettuccine. Why don't you come out? We'll make the pasta and open something good from the cellar."

  "Give me forty-five minutes. Can I bring anything?"

  "No need to bring a thing. Kathleen will be happy to see you."

  Taking a quick shower, I dressed in slacks, my fifth and last clean white shirt, and put on my old leather flight jacket. It's about as formal as I get. I don't know why, but I put my magnum in the right hand pocket of the jacket. Maybe I didn't want Anastasio stealing it again.

  Driving slowly along the winding lane leading to Owl's Head, the car tires made crunching sounds on the loosely packed gravel. At the top of the hill the house suddenly appeared like a ship emerging from a fog bank. The two-story house surrounded by fir trees and water oaks was impressive.

  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.