“They fought me with fire and thunder,” he was quoted as saying. “I tried sorcery against them, but still they increased and prevailed. I am powerless and must bend before the storm.”
Passaconnaway had lived to be a hundred and twenty years old. He had died in 1666 after converting to Christianity and warning his people not to quarrel with the English lest they be “destroyed and rooted off of the earth.” Old Passaconnaway, a prophet to the last, had seen the future clearly, I thought. His people had been, in the end, pretty much rooted off of the earth.
And now Linda Vanderbeck was set on getting at least some of that earth back.
While I was there, I read more of New England history. About the European explorers and settlers, and the people they found waiting for them when they landed. About Champlain and Block, John Smith and Cotton Mather, Gosnold, Standish, and Bradford, and their adventures and misadventures with the native folk. And about Winepoykin of the Nahumkeikes, who had his nose cut off while fighting the Tarentines and who was afterward known to the English as “No-nose George”; and about Samoset, and Squanto, and Coneconum; and about Massasoit of the Pokanokets, who were also known as the Wampanoags, and who, after the Tarentines had devastated the Massachusetts tribes in 1618, became the most powerful people in southern New England.
I read about the conflicts between the Wampanoags and the Narragansetts, the wars between the Algonquins and the Iroquois, especially those between the Mohawks and the Mohegans, and about the torture and mutilations that seem to go with all wars, particularly those between relatives. I read about Massasoit’s sons, Wamsutta and Metacomet, called Alexander and Philip by the English, and of “King Philip’s War” between the native peoples and the Europeans that ended only with the death of Metacomet, King Philip, in 1676.
It was a bloody history of betrayals, killings, and brutality, and its ending all but guaranteed that Passaconnaway’s last, dark prophecy of doom for his people would come true.
I thought about Linda Vanderbeck. In the seventeenth century, there had been women leaders of some of the native peoples in New England, squaw-sachems, who were tribal commanders. A phrase appeared in my mind: Queen Linda’s War. I put aside my books, and thought awhile, then got up and left the library, wondering what I had learned, if anything, that might be useful to me or make me wise. Outside, the sun was bright and the wind was sweet, and King Philip was a long time dead.
It was past noon, and I was suddenly conscious of being hungry and in need of a beer, so I walked down to the Navigator Room for a sandwich and something to wash it down. When I came outside afterward, I looked up the street and saw the chief standing at the four corners, where Main Street crosses Water Street. He was talking to a summer cop. I walked up, arriving just as the summer cop left.
In spite of the fine beach weather, there were, as usual, a lot of people in town. A mixture of tanned July people and pale August people.
“What brings you downtown?” asked the chief. “You’re usually hanging out in the woods, or off fishing someplace this time of day.”
“Scholarship,” I said. “My never-ending quest for wisdom has brought me to the library.”
“I didn’t know they had a library in the Navigator Room,” said the chief.
“Ha, ha. That was my after-library lunch.”
“It must be nice to have a job that lets you drink beer all day.” His eyes were roving here and there, as usual.
“What do you hear from Boston?” I asked.
“You mean about your notion that Fred Souza stole that shotgun and is behind that attack on your boss, Luciano Marcus? Well, as a matter of fact, I talked with Gordon Sullivan, up in Boston, an hour or so ago. He’s talked with Fred Souza and some people who know him, and so far, at least, it looks like your theory will fly about as well as a lead kite. Freddy is working for the summer at UMass Boston, he’s going to summer school, and he’s got another job flipping burgers at night in a diner. In his spare time, he studies and sleeps, and that’s about all. He doesn’t hang around with any hard cases, and he doesn’t seem to have the time or money or energy to date girls or to party. He’s broke, and he’s unhappy about his father, but Sullivan thinks he’s too busy and tired to be involved with anything but his work and his classes.”
“Sullivan could be wrong, of course.”
“Sure, he could.”
“But if Freddy didn’t steal that shotgun, who did?”
“There are two hundred million other people living in the United States,” said the chief. “If it wasn’t him, I’d guess that it was one of them. See you later.” He walked up Main Street.
I looked at my watch, then walked up Water Street, thinking. At home, still running things through my mind, I found Zee washing her long black hair. I wondered if she’d like to go fishing.
“No. I don’t need to get my hair all salted up before it’s even dry.”
I repeated my theory that the reason women don’t rule the world is because they don’t have time to do that and wash their hair, too.
“Get out of here,” said Zee.
I put both regular and light rods on the roof rack, my tackle box and a five-gallon bucket in the back of the Land Cruiser, some beer in a cooler, and headed for the Jetties. Fishing is good for the soul, and mine felt like it needed some TLC right at the moment.
FWD’s lined the Norton’s Point Beach, and there were kites flying above them. Swimmers, sunbathers, and picnickers were enjoying the bright blue afternoon. At Wasque, there were more Jeeps and four-by-fours and more sunbathers, mixed with fishermen who were not catching any fish, but who didn’t seem unhappy about it. I saw someone in an inner tube floating west in the falling tide, right in front of the surf casters. Had fish been there, that person would have been the subject of furious abuse and maybe even more, but today the warm and lazy fishermen simply held their casts until he sailed by.
I drove up East Beach, then cut inside to the Dike Bridge and went on north past the narrows to Cape Pogue Pond. I drove along the pond’s east side until I could cut back outside to Arruda’s Point, where, perhaps, a Spanish mackerel or maybe a bonito might be waiting for my Swedish Pimple.
There were a couple of trucks there already, but there was still room for me, so I got down my light rod and went to work.
While I fished, and felt the soul release that I get from casting for the fruits of the sea, I thought some more about the stolen shotgun.
After a while, I got back into the truck and drove on to the Jetties, over the soft sands that lie between there and Arruda’s. There were more trucks at the Jetties, but room for me again, so I tried my luck there for a while. Nobody was catching anything, but that was all right. If bringing home a fish is the only reason you go fishing, you should get one at the A & P instead of trying to catch one.
When I had been casting for about a half hour, I got my first hit. And lost it. The hit encouraged everybody, however, and pretty soon a guy on the other side of the rocks actually landed a mackerel. Everyone was happy for him. A little later I landed one of my own. I cut its throat and stood it, head down, in my five-gallon pail full of salt water. Before I left, I had another one standing on its head beside the first one. Not bad, for a short trip to the beach. I opened a celebratory beer, and drove home, looking at the birds, feeling better than when I’d left the house.
I cleaned the fish and got one ready for supper. When that was done, I phoned Thornberry Security. Thornberry was out. His secretary was willing to take my message: Had Thornberry checked out Fred Souza?
Then I called Aristotle Socarides. No answer. Where did that guy spend his time? Wasn’t he ever home? And why didn’t he have an answering machine? Everybody had an answering machine these days.
Except me, of course.
Zee’s hair was dry. Our martini glasses were in the freezer, chilled and waiting, but she’d gotten her bag of shooting gear out of the gun cabinet. Apparently shooting didn’t get your hair salty. I wasn’t surprised when she
said she’d take the martini later, after she and Manny finished their evening shoot. She invited me to come along, and I did that, not forgetting to take my own earplugs.
She and Manny worked hard, and the targets disintegrated before their pistols.
“Jessica James,” I said, when she pulled the plugs out of her ears and packed her gear away.
“The lady can shoot,” said Manny, approvingly.
At home, while Zee cleaned her Beretta, I got the drinks and appetizers ready, and took them up to the balcony. Zee came up and we sat and looked out over the evening waters. Life seemed strange and beautiful. I thought back to what Vanderbeck had said, and tried to imagine what God saw when examining the world. But I was not God, and could not guess.
23
The next morning, I called Detective Gordon R. Sullivan. He didn’t seem too happy to hear from me.
“What is it this time? Another hot lead?”
“A few years back, a kid named Vinny Cecilio stole a car…”
“Every other kid in Boston has stolen a car,” said Sullivan. “You want to talk to somebody about a stolen car, I’ll connect you.”
“This kid was Luciano Marcus’s grandson. He still is. Nowadays, he’s the old man’s chauffeur. He was driving Gramp’s car when the guy went at Luciano with the shotgun.”
“So?” Sullivan was a little more interested, but not a lot.
“There were a couple of other kids with Vinny when they hooked the car. One of them was named Benny White, and the other one was called Roger the Dodger. I’d like to know what they’re doing these days.”
“I have things to do, Mr. Jackson. I don’t have a lot of time to run around looking up juvenile records. If I tried to keep track of every kid who stole a car in Boston, I wouldn’t have time to do anything else.”
“You sound jaded,” I said, putting a note of obviously false sympathy in my voice. “Okay, forget it. I’ll call Thornberry Security. And I know a reporter over at the Globe. I’ll see if he can help me out. Sorry to have bothered you.”
Cops often have good relations with reporters, and sometimes they actually get along with private cops. But they don’t like it when those reporters and Pi’s have information and they don’t.
“All right, all right,” said Sullivan. “But what’s the deal here? Why do you want to know who those kids were?”
“Because somebody took a shot at Luciano Marcus, and if it wasn’t Fred Souza, it was somebody else. The only name I have that ties the Vineyard to Boston is Vinny Cecilio’s, and aside from the island kids who knew him at UMass, those two names are the only ones I have that are tied to him.”
“You telling me that Vinny tried to pop his own grandfather?”
“No. But if he did, it wouldn’t be the first time some kid did it.”
“There aren’t any first times anymore,” said Sullivan. “I got a lot of people to talk to. I’ll add those to the list. It’s the best I can do.”
“One more thing. Those other two guys who were shot-gunned. When did the shootings happen? Was it since the shotgun was stolen down on the island?”
“Yeah. One in May, and one in June. And now this latest one in July. Sounds like Joe Louis.”
I didn’t get that one, and said so. “You’re too young,” said Sullivan. “Joe Louis knocked them down so fast that they said he had a bum-of-the-month club. This shootist may have his own bum-of-the-month hit list. May, June, and a whack at Luciano in July.”
Great. And now it was August.
I rang off and called Thornberry Security. I got Jason himself this time, and gave him the two names.
“So far,” said Thornberry, “your tips have not gotten us very far.”
“They’ve gotten you as far as yours have gotten me,” I said, and told him what I’d been up to since last we’d talked. He told me nothing, of course. Jason the silent.
I thought about the people I’d talked to and the people I hadn’t. I thought about people I hadn’t even seen. I thought about Vinnie Cecilio. I decided to talk with Angela Marcus. Grandma.
How many times had I driven to Gay Head in the past few days? I was spending more time there than down island, where I belonged.
I drove up the Marcus’s long driveway and parked. No one came to meet me. Nobody was watching the television screen. Security was lax. I knocked on the door, and Priscilla opened it. I told her I wanted to talk with Mrs. Marcus.
“She’s in her garden,” said Priscilla. I followed her along a hall and up some stairs. We passed Luciano’s office en route. Priscilla opened a door and I went past her, out into the light of the August day. I walked along a path and came to Angela’s garden. She was alone, on her knees, peering at her basil. She glanced up and smiled as I approached.
“Bugs,” she said. “I’ve put some beer traps here. Did you ever use beer traps?”
I thought of the cans and bottles I’d emptied over the years. I was probably in a beer trap myself.
“Yes,” I said. “I use them sometimes. And sometimes they even work.” I knelt beside her, as she sat back on her heels and wiped her brow with the back of a gardening glove. “I’ve talked to everyone, and I’d like to talk to you some more. About the shooting.”
She lifted a leaf and looked under it. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you, but I’ll try, if you like.”
I liked Angela. She didn’t seem to have any bad bones. “You’re probably right,” I said, “but I’ll ask you a few questions anyway.”
“All right.”
“Do you know anyone who might want to harm your husband?”
“No, I don’t.”
I wanted to protect her as much as I wanted to question her. “I understand that when he was younger, his, ah, business activities may have created enemies.”
“That was a long time ago,” she said. “Luciano has not been involved in such things for years.”
“Ah. You knew about them, then?”
She looked at me. “I’m not one of those wives who shuts her eyes to her family, who sees nothing but good in her husband and children. I love them, but I know who they are. Luciano did things that he felt he had to do. And he did them knowing that I did not approve. But he loved me and I loved him, and in time he stopped doing those things. All that was a long time ago.”
“Tell me about your grandson Vinnie.”
Her gaze was steady. “Vincent is a naive young man who has neither great intellect nor ambition. In part I blame our daughter and her husband for that, though perhaps I shouldn’t, since neither of them values thought or hard work, either. Perhaps it’s genetic. My sons are intelligent and industrious, like their father, but my daughter is like my mother, good-natured and clever, but lazy. Worse yet, she married a man much like herself, and Vincent is the product of that union. So what he is, is probably not his fault. It’s probably mine, for not having brought him down here earlier, before his weaknesses got him into trouble.”
“But you give him money. Isn’t that catering to those very weaknesses?”
She shrugged. “I have it to give. Perhaps I spoil him a little. But a boy needs a little money.” She smiled. “It’s like that good cop, bad cop business I see on the TV programs. Luciano is the bad cop, and I’m the good cop. Together, we get the work done. We get Vincent to become a man, instead of a child.”
“You love him.”
“Of course. He’s my grandson.”
“And does he love you and his grandfather?”
“What a question! Of course he does!”
“One of the motives behind crimes is money. Who will benefit from Luciano’s will?”
Her back stiffened. She put her hands on her knees and looked down at them. When she spoke, her voice was tight. “A good deal of the money will be in trusts. If I survive Luciano, most of the rest of it will come to me, but some will go to the children and grandchildren. I don’t think you should be thinking along these lines, Mr. Jackson.”
“I gather that the estat
e will be considerable. Who’ll control the businesses? What you’ve said about your daughter suggests that she’s not the one to leave in charge.”
Some of the anger seemed to go out of her. She sighed. “Cynthia and her husband would very much like to get control of the family businesses, but Luciano has put those businesses in our sons’ hands. Our daughter and her family receive the income from a trust, and from the businesses as well. It will keep them comfortable, though probably not as comfortable as they might wish. But what is it they say about wishes? If they were horses, beggars would ride? We love our daughter very much and are fond of our son-in-law, but we no longer hope that someday they’ll become responsible enough to trust with the large amounts of money. When Luciano dies, they will, of course, receive a very nice cash legacy, as will the other members of the family, but their principal inheritance will be another trust.”
“And the boys will get the businesses.”
“No. Our sons will control the businesses, but they will continue to be owned, in part, by their sister.”
“But she’ll have no hand in running things.”
“That’s right. Cynthia is like her son. When she has money, she spends it and wants more. She’s a wonderfully pleasant person, but she never looks beyond her present desires. We’re working hard to see that Vincent won’t turn out the same way. Vincent…” Her voice fell away.
It was interesting to have it affirmed that rich people had almost as many money problems as I did. They were just of a different kind. Mine came from having almost too little cash; theirs came from having almost too much. I wondered what it was about Vinnie that made her voice fade away like that.
A shadow fell across the basil, and we both turned and saw Bill Vanderbeck peering down. I glanced down at Angela. Her face, which had been troubled, seemed immediately very happy.
“It’s doing very well,” he said, nodding.
“We love pesto,” she said. “I think we might eat it every day if our cook would let us.”
Death on a Vineyard Beach Page 19
