Blind Overlook

by JC Simmons

  "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 said, "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.

  At 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?"

  Without realizing it, my voice had risen in a crescendo. Lack of sleep had me on edge.

  "Jesus, man,” Annie said, looking at me weirdly. "Take it easy. If I can find the ticket, I'll tell you exactly what he bought."

  A receipt. I had not thought about her writing a ticket for the purchases. I continued moving around the tables, searching.

  "Here it is,” Annie said, holding up the ticket. "Everything is listed. He paid in cash. You want to look?"

  I read Annie's neat printing on the ticket.

  1 Wool cap..................$4.99

  1 pair wool mittens..........6.99

  1 hand painted bandanna.....11.69

  Tax...... 1.66

  Total...$23.67

  "Yes, that's it. Do you have any more of these hand painted bandannas?"

  "All this for a bandanna? You're here at five a.m. for an Indian scarf?"

  The door at the rear of the chandlery slammed shut. A man stood looking at us. "Annie? What's going on?" He walked hesitantly toward us. Then he recognized me. "Leicester, what are you doing here this time of day?"

  "He's looking to buy one of those Bandannas hand painted by the Indians."

  "What?" He cocked his head and looked at me earnestly with a faint, ugly smirk.

  "It's true,” Annie said. "He's been sitting out in the parking lot all night, waiting to buy an Indian scarf."

  "Leicester?" Barstein walked up close to me. His breath smelled of cigarettes and stale coffee. He stared, blinking rapidly. He had long eyelashes. They gave the black eyes an effeminate quality that made a stunning contrast to the brutish face with the jagged, welted scar.

  "I can explain." I held up both hands in front of me in the cold air of the chandlery. At least I hoped I could.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  We sat in the unmarked police car at the Augusta airport, waiting. The sky was gray, and a low overcast hung depressingly across the landscape. Visibility hovered around a half mile. Intermittent rain fell bringing a damp chill to the air. J.L. kept the engine running to defrost the windshield. The wipers, set to pause, would swipe across the glass every thirty seconds, clearing away the mist, and revealing the airport runway.

  J.L. sat calmly peering out through the windshield, his scholarly-like face not giving away his inner thoughts. He would have made a good poker player. I wondered if he did play.

  We would watch as aircraft suddenly appeared through the dense fog, touch down on the wet runway, and throw up thick, foamy spray as the crew reversed the engines.

  "I've often wondered how they do that?" J.L. asked, more to himself than to me.

  "Do what?" I wiped at some fog forming on the inside of the windshield.

  "Find the airport on days like today. The aircraft appear like ghosts from the clouds, perfectly lined up to land. It has always been amazing to me."

  Laughing, I thought of how many days like today I had flown airplanes down to landing minimums, sometimes seeing the runway, sometimes not. "Maybe someday I will explain to you how it's done." It would take too much time to do it now. There were other things to think about.

  "Humph,” J.L. grunted. He pushed up his shirtsleeve and looked at his watch. "What time is this flight due in?"

  "About ten minutes ago. They're probably running late due to the weather. The airport only came up to landing minimums a half-hour ago. There were probably several planes stacked up in a holding
pattern waiting for the visibility to improve."

  J.L. didn't say anything. He stared out the windshield, watching a Boeing 737 reversing its engines, kicking up spray.

  * * *

  Leaving the chandlery two days ago, I had driven back to J.L.'s home and explained what I'd found. We made our plans, working them through as thoroughly as we could. Now we sat waiting for Sandy Rinaldi to arrive from New Orleans. It was necessary for her to return to Rockland in order to wrap up the investigation.

  Convincing Sandy to make the trip all the way back to Maine took some doing, but she finally relented.

  We watched the new-generation turboprop commuter aircraft taxi up to the gate. The ground crew immediately rolled a cart filled with umbrellas out to the exit door of the plane.

  Sandy was the first to debark. Even from a distance one could recognize her tall, lithe frame. Blond hair flowed down around her shoulders. Sharp, high cheekbones and dark eyebrows were a stark contrast to the gray, cloud-covered morning. She held the umbrella high above her head and moved swiftly toward the terminal with a determined stride. Her white, long-sleeved blouse, black slacks, and high-heeled shoes looked expensive and professional. She was an impressive woman. I could not escape the feeling of admiration I experienced the first time we met.

  J.L. and I went inside the terminal. Sandy was standing straight, her head level. The planes of her face had a military cleanliness of precision and a feminine fragility. Her hands hung still, by her sides, parallel with the long straight lines of her black slacks. She spotted me and waved.

  Walking to where she stood, I kissed her on the cheek. Her perfume wrapped around me like a warm embrace, reminding me of pleasant things long passed. She greeted me with overt cheerfulness. Her eyes switched back and forth across mine, inviting me to browse among her thoughts.

  "I'm so glad to be off that little airplane. We've been circling around up there for over an hour. The pilot said at one point that if the fog didn't lift in ten minutes we would have to divert to Lewiston, wherever that is?" She shook her head, an ash-blond wisp falling across her face. She brushed it back with a flair.