I was reaching for one of Jane’s books when she strode into the room. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief. You should have called ahead.”
I smiled into her inquiring glare. “I like surprising people.”
The dog trotted up to me, tail wagging. I patted the blunt head gingerly.
“Don’t be afraid, Chief. I read your editorial against profiling. It applies to dogs as well as humans. Corky’s perfectly friendly. Pit bulls are the sweetest dogs on Earth…or should I say, American Staffordshire terriers are? Isn’t that so, Corky?” The dog’s ears lifted at the sound of her name, then she went back to licking my hand.
“This one’s adorable,” I said.
“Indeed. Well, your timing is good at least. Fred is just finishing up for the day.”
Hamburger and the crew trooped in. He said, “It’s part of my Open House series, Chief. An intimate look at the homes of Nantucket’s most important people. We should do your house! Aren’t you living in the old Fraker place on Darling Street? Two writers, three kids, and a dog! It’s a natural.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on. I promise to stay out of your closets.”
“We spent an hour in mine,” Barsch said. “It’s a nice little walk-in—”
“Little? It’s huge! I could move in there!”
“Now, really, I don’t think—”
“She’s got more shoes than Imelda Marcos—no offense, and racks for her bracelets and rings, and this teak stand that holds all her glasses and her sunglasses, plus the hats! She has this silo of hatboxes, and drawers full of cashmere sweaters, not to mention the—”
“Fred.”
He stopped, pulled up short like a man at a curb facing heavy traffic. The city bus of Barsch’s disapproving frown roared past an inch from his face, and the wind of it seemed to knock him back a step.
“Uh, sorry—”
“You make me sound like some grasping old parvenu dowager.” She turned to me. “My money goes back three generations. For your information.”
“I was just saying,” Fred attempted.
“Don’t bother. Chief Kennis can see your little film, when it’s done. Then he’ll know all the details. Don’t spoil it for him. We’ll finish up tomorrow.”
“She’s going to let me shoot while she cooks dinner.”
“I’m quite an accomplished chef,” she added. “If I do say so myself.”
When the filmmakers were gone we walked outside and sat down at the wrought-iron table on her terrace, under a wide umbrella. Below us a gentle breeze troubled the fountain and carried a waft of standing water.
She passed a proprietary hand across the vista. “So what do you think of the place?”
I shrugged. “Not my style. And I’m tired of all these made-up Indian-sounding names for Nantucket subdivisons.”
“Made-up? Really? Nanahumacke was a real person, Chief. What they called a ‘petty sachem’—a figure of great social standing within the community. He owned all this land, including Hummock Pond, which is in fact a bastardization of his name. You should study your history before you make silly, off-the-cuff comments. You’re something of a petty sachem yourself, you know.”
“Thanks for that. I can’t help wondering what old Nanahumacke would think of all this.”
The blunt face hardened in the afternoon light. “I don’t think it matters. His kind lost their say a long time ago.”
“And I’m sure some of your ancestors supplied the smallpox blankets.”
“Superior races conquer inferior ones. It’s always been that way. No need to get sentimental about it.”
“Arrogance and better weapons don’t make you superior.”
Her smile was icy. “Yet here we are. And Nanahumacke is a name on a rock.”
Time to put the needle down. “So where were you on the afternoon Refn was killed?”
“I was walking Corky.”
“All afternoon?”
“On occasion, yes, I do walk her all afternoon. On this particular afternoon, she ran away. She caught the scent of a deer and she was gone. I stayed out until sunset calling for her. She finally came back just as I was giving up. Her beautiful tartan jacket was shredded. She must have been running through the brambles all day.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t see anyone, if that’s what you mean.”
“So you have no way to prove your whereabouts?”
“Well, I called the dog officer. They log those calls, I assume.”
“But you could have made that call from anywhere.”
“Carmen saw us leave the house, and she was here when we came home four hours later, with Corky much the worse for wear.”
“But in between…”
“No. Does that make me a suspect?”
“At the moment, everyone’s a suspect.”
She raised her eyebrows minutely in brusque professorial chastisement. “Focus, Chief Kennis. Focus.”
“How did you feel about Refn? Did you like him?”
“I adored him. You might say I came here for him. I was sick of the Midwest, my husband had passed, and I was looking for a vibrant East Coast small town, someplace where I could dig in and make a difference, some place where the arts mattered and I could matter to the arts. So I did what I always do. I studied the problem and I made my decision. Ultimately, it came down to Martha’s Vineyard or Nantucket, and Horst Refn was the deciding factor. He was making real theater here and I knew I could help. It was a wonderful experience until—well, until this horrible incident.”
“The murder.”
“I detest that word. I don’t see how it could have happened. Who could have done it? Who could hate Horst so much?”
“Quite a few people, apparently.”
“It’s all gossip. I don’t believe a word of it. My grandfather was an Oklahoma oil man. He was accused of murdering Osage Indians to steal their mineral rights, just because he was friends with Willie Hale! A great man, by the way. Unjustly persecuted, forgotten by history. Tragic story—look him up, see for yourself. My father and my two brothers have been accused of causing earthquakes with their fracking operations! What’s next? Will they blame us for tornadoes and hailstorms? It’s despicable. If I could move the Earth so easily, I’d have knocked California into the sea a long time ago.
“In any case…I’m well inured to innuendo and guilt by association. I’m just sorry to see it all happening here. People aren’t always killed because they’re bad, Chief Kennis. In fact, that rarely happens. The bad people prosper and thrive! No one knows why these crimes take place. They’re irrational. Trying to blame the victim just makes you look lazy and mean-spirited. Dig deeper, that’s my advice.”
“Any suggestions?”
“It’s not my place.”
“I think it is. You know all these people. I don’t. You’ve been present at the board meetings, you socialize with the board members. You’ve seen things. You’ve heard things. Maybe something struck an odd note but you dismissed it at the time. But now everything’s different. A man’s been murdered and his killer is probably someone you know. Like the lipstick you might find among your husband’s ChapSticks in the bathroom drawer. You ignore it until you find out he’s a cross-dresser. Then it suddenly makes sense.”
“This happened?”
“A long time ago. A case in Los Angeles. I’m just making a point.”
She picked a fake lemon from the bowl of them on the table, rolled it between her fingers. “Now that you mention it…”
“Tell me.”
“It’s probably nothing. Just…it did strike me as odd. At the time. And that’s the sort of thing you’re looking for.”
“Yes.”
“Well…I was talking to the playwright, Blair Hollister? He wrote t
he play Who Dun It, which the Theater Lab is mounting this summer. Handsome boy, very bright, very talented, very charming. Hardly anyone’s ideal suspect for such…for a thing like this.”
“But?”
“He said the most peculiar thing the other day. Out of nowhere, at the Kohls’ cocktail party. He said, ‘I know you have my back.’ I said, ‘Excuse me?’ I was standing alone on the Kohls’ little strip of beach facing the harbor, and he startled me. ‘Is this about the play? Are they trying to make you change your play?’ He laughed at that idea. ‘They can’t make me change a word. And they wouldn’t.’ I said, ‘Then what are you talking about?’ He was quiet. The harbor lights looked like a stage set at that moment. Finally, he said, ‘Sometimes you have to lie to tell the truth. And sometimes you have to trust the truth even when it sounds like a lie.’ It was my turn to laugh. I said, ‘That sounds like your philosophy of playwriting.’ But he was serious, deadly serious. ‘Everything will be okay as long as you trust me.’ What do you think he could have meant by that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, I didn’t either. But I started thinking, Who is this man? Why did he come here? What does he really want? He writes a play about a murder, and a murder happens. Is that a coincidence?”
I was getting tired of that trope. “Probably.”
“I looked into the matter and I made some disturbing discoveries. You must know Victor Galassi.”
“The District Court judge.”
“He’s a twin.”
“I’m not sure why that—”
“An identical twin.”
“Okay.”
“Just like the judge in Hollister’s play.”
“Who gets killed, I assume?”
“Poisoned.”
I took a breath, let it out slowly. “No one has threatened Judge Galassi, Ms. Barsch. He would have reported it. He reported a break-in at his house two days ago, but no one was harmed and nothing was stolen. He’s still alive and well. More to the point, Horst Refn is the murder victim. What’s Hollister’s connection to him?”
“It’s your job to find out.”
I was getting tired of rich people telling me how to do my job. I stood up. “We’ll look into all this. Thanks for your time. I’ll let myself out.”
Outside in the freshening wind from the ocean, I checked my watch—just past two. Hollister’s play was rehearsing at Bennett Hall. I decided to take a look.
Chapter Seven
The Rehearsal
Driving to the Congregational Church, I thought about my previous encounters with Hollister. I had seen him several times hiking in Dead Horse Valley—or Chicken Hill, as some people called the little patch of open land and wooded trails wedged between the old windmill, the hospital, and a new housing development under construction. On school snow days, it offered the best sledding in town and it was a favorite year-round spot for dog owners. I rarely saw an unaccompanied biped walking the trails, though, so Hollister stood out. He strode past us on both occasions, in his own world and in a hurry, grunting a minimal acknowledgement to me and ignoring Bailey. I never actually spoke to him until the parking lot incident.
It was a couple of weeks before Refn’s death. Jane and I were getting lunch at Provisions, the little sandwich shop on Harbor Square at the base of Straight Wharf. We had parked in the Stop & Shop lot, using the locals’ standard no-spaces-available tactic: Jane simply slotted her newly acquired dream car—a beautifully restored, sky blue 1970 Volkswagen Beetle—parallel to the slant-parking. It’s a practical solution: one person runs in for the sandwiches while the other one stays behind the wheel, in case one of the blocked cars has to get out. By early August you can see as many as ten vehicles lined up this way, using the tag team system, some of them waiting to pick up friends from the Hy-Line, others grocery shopping or grabbing an ice cream cone. But in mid-June it was just us.
Jane parked near the top of the lot and I dashed in for the food, nodding to the two Summer Specials, Jim and Judy, I couldn’t remember their last names, directing traffic as a baffled crowd of tourists trudged off the ferry. They took an extra second to recognize me—I wasn’t in uniform that day, or the incident might never have happened.
I got our lunch, two Caprese sandwiches (tomato and mozzarella with pesto and a balsamic vinaigrette on ciabatta bread) plus two of the store’s own mint iced teas with lemon. I was strolling back, past the crowded outdoor tables at the Tavern toward the parking lot, when I heard the altercation.
I broke into a trot.
A dark green Range Rover was idling next to Jane’s Beetle and the driver had leaned over to shout from the open passenger side window. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Can you speak English? Speka de inglese? Move the goddamn car! You’re blocking the street!”
Jane seemed supernaturally calm, a long-suffering poltergeist tolerating irrational abuse for simply moving the armchairs to flank the couch and face the fireplace. The arrangement was obvious, she was just trying to help. But living people were scared of ghosts. Oh, well. “Your car is next to mine,” she pointed out gently. “I can’t be blocking it.”
“Then how the hell am I gonna turn right up there?”
“It’s left turn only.”
I leaned into his window. “What’s going on?”
He swiveled to face me. “This bitch won’t move her car and no one can get by!”
Bitch? I let it go in the interest of civil polity. “Just keep driving, sir. I’m sure you’ll have no problem.”
“Jesus Christ, you fucking people! Shit.”
He shoved the car door open and I stepped back as he lurched out onto the pavement. He pointed at Jim…McKitrick—that was his name! And she was Judy Toole. “I’m reporting this! I’m telling that cop!”
“I’m the Chief of Police.”
“Bullshit. Get out of my way.”
He pushed past me, strode away, and dragged Jim McKitrick back with him. Ironically, cars were now lining up behind his Range Rover.
“…so it’s really not a problem,” Jim was explaining. “It’s kind of like an ad hoc solution? But it works pretty well and it actually keeps the traffic moving through the parking lot, which I mean, in August? You should see this place.” He looked over and saw me. “Sorry, Chief.”
“No problem, Jim, But you should be getting back.”
“Right, yeah—sure. On my way!”
He scurried back to his corner, where a tourist bus had two wheels up on the sidewalk and someone’s rolling suitcase had just tipped over among a tangle of poodles. Range Rover Guy turned back. He was a big blond surfer type with a scrappy blond beard, maybe an inch taller and twenty pounds heavier than me. He loomed a little, chest out, trying to leverage the difference. “You’re actually the Police Chief? I don’t believe this! Where’s your uniform?”
Someone honked their horn. A few other drivers joined in, “I’m off duty. Now get back into your car and drive.”
“This is anarchy!”
“Actually it’s the opposite of anarchy. We work things out together. And things work out pretty well.”
He glared at me. “What kind of goddamn policeman are you, anyway?”
“The polite and considerate kind. I don’t yell at strange women and I don’t block traffic while I yell at other people for blocking traffic. So move along.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this!!”
“Right.”
He slammed back into his SUV and burned rubber pulling out. The other cars followed and the lot was clear a few seconds later. I handed Jane the sandwiches.
She smiled. “Strange women?”
“Well, you are sort of odd.”
“That guy’s the new glamor writer at the Theater Lab. He and Mark Toland are on the cover of N Magazine this month.”
“Right, I saw that. I seem to
recall he was smiling in that picture. No wonder I didn’t recognize him.”
So that was my introduction to Blair Hollister.
Nothing I saw at rehearsal that day improved my opinion.
I walked up the wide steps to the foot of the white, newly repainted Congregational Church, its spire rising above the clapboards to the cloudless blue sky. On the phone, Refn’s assistant, Tim Hobbes—now temporarily promoted to acting-Artistic Director—told me they’d be rehearsing all day, and I thought it was sad—working on a play meant you had to stay inside in a dark theater on such a gorgeous afternoon.
Tim Hobbes seemed like a nice kid, overwhelmed by his new responsibilities and eager for the board to choose a replacement. He had flown back from New York the day after Refn’s death. He’d gone to the city for his father’s funeral. At the time of the murder, he had been delivering the eulogy, in front of roughly three hundred people. That was one of the first alibis Charlie Boyce checked out. So, a rough week for Tim Hobbes, and he was still in a state of shock. Reality hadn’t closed in yet and the cascade of new responsibilities kept him too busy to brood, at least during the day. I had a feeling he wasn’t getting much sleep, though.
Death was everywhere that summer, including on the stage at Bennett Hall. I arrived at the rehearsal just in time to witness an attempted murder, albeit a fictional one. The scene was being blocked meticulously by Mark Toland. I heard thumps and shouts as I crossed the lobby of the little theater attached to the church.
Inside, Toland was on stage with two of the actors. One of them crossed the set to a rolling drinks table placed under the window. “You have guesses and theories and delusions, my friend. But no proof.”
“I don’t care anymore,” said the younger actor. “I’m beyond that now. And so are you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“People only ask that question when they already know the answer.”
“And people only threaten when they can’t do anything else. When they’re weak.”
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