A Case of Vineyard Poison

by Philip R. Craig

  I could guess what he thought it was. “Spoiled rotten? No respect for money? Rich daddies? Don’t have to work like ordinary people?”

  “That’s it, buddy. You got it.” He shook his head. “Seemed like a nice kid, too. Worked real good right up to now. Then this. Jesus, it’s hard to stay in business with the kind of help you get these days.”

  “She’s a good worker, then?”

  “Yeah. Till now, that is.”

  “Never did anything like this before?”

  “No, but once is enough. I got to have dependable help. I got to be able to rely on my people.”

  “Like Bonzo.”

  He glanced at Bonzo, then back at me. “Yeah, like Bonzo. You know Bonzo? I guess everybody comes in here knows Bonzo. Yeah, like Bonzo. Bonzo ain’t got much going for him, but what he’s got he brings to work. Every day. He can work here as long as he wants to. I’ll always have a place for him.”

  “What kind of a girl is Denise Vale?”

  “Well, I thought she was okay, till now. You know. Worked hard, never got too mad, took all that crap the guys give a girl and never took it personal. I thought I had a winner. Now this. Now I got to get another girl, and who knows what she’ll be like? I tell you . . .”

  “Maybe she’s sick,” I said. “Maybe she’s in the hospital.” I thought of Kathy Ellis. “Maybe she fell off a moped or something.”

  “You think so?” He was willing to consider it. I got the notion that if Denise Vale was sick, she could get her job back.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  The waitress, who apparently was also his wife, came up with drink orders from the tables, and the bartender got busy filling them while she took the food orders back to the kitchen. I looked into the mirror and saw Bonzo coming toward me. He was wearing his amiable smile. I turned on the stool, and he shook my hand.

  “Thought I saw you, J.W. I was busy back there, but I like to keep my eyes open, and I saw you sitting here. How you doing?”

  “I’m good, Bonzo. You want a beer?”

  His face got serious. “Oh no, J.W. I’m on duty. I never drink any beer when I’m on duty. I got a lot of work to do here. I got to be on my toes.”

  “Say, Bonzo, do you know a girl named Denise Vale? She was working here last week.”

  His dim eyes brightened a bit, and he nodded his head slowly. “Oh yeah, J.W., I know Denise. She works here. She gives me some of her tips when I clean up her tables for her. I guess Denise is okay.”

  “She was supposed to work here over” the weekend. Do you know why she didn’t?”

  Bonzo rolled his eyes toward the bartender and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Bob’s pretty mad about that. About Denise not being here. You know, he had to get Jackie to come in here and work, and they were both pretty mad. And I didn’t get any of Jackie’s tips, either. Not one. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  He winked. “I don’t think that Jackie gets many tips. Not like Denise does.” His voice came back to its normal level. “Denise gets a lot of tips.” Then he leaned toward me. “Why you want to know about Denise, J.W? You a friend of hers?”

  “I just want to talk to her. Does she have any special friends here? Somebody who might know how I can get in touch with her?”

  He thought carefully. “You mean like somebody who comes in here to have a beer?”

  “Yeah, someone like that. Anybody who might be able to tell me where I can find her.”

  “You mean, like somebody who comes in here to eat, and they and Denise got to be friends?”

  “Yeah, Bonzo, somebody like that.”

  He leaned upon his broom and gave the matter great consideration. Finally he looked at me and shook his head. “I don’t know of nobody like that. I guess I’m as good a friend as she’s got. She always gives me some of her tips, you know.”

  “Does she have a boyfriend, Bonzo?”

  That was a poser, and Bonzo gave it his best thought. Finally he nodded. “You know, J.W., I think she does have one. She said once to me, she said, I’m going to meet my boyfriend after work and we’re gonna go to Falmouth to the movies. Yeah, that’s what she said, and that means she’s got a boyfriend.” He looked at me with his innocent, empty eyes and nodded again. “Yeah, I guess that Denise has got a boyfriend all right.”

  “You really like the young girls, don’t you, you son of a bitch?” said a furious voice beside my right ear. I turned my head to see who was talking and a mule kicked me in the jaw. The world turned odd colors and shapes, and I went off my barstool, over or through Bonzo, and down onto the floor. There was a roaring in my ears, and things went dark, then lightened again. Bonzo was half under me. I rolled off him and looked up. A rhinoceros was walking toward me.

  — 12 —

  I got a hand on a barstool and threw it at the rhino’s legs. He kicked it aside and came on, but by then I was on my feet. I felt airy, and knew that I was hurt and needed more time. I backed down the bar, touched something on it, and threw the something at the rhino. He ducked and kept coming on. Things were coming back into focus. The roar in my ears became the sound of alarmed and interested voices, and I saw that the rhino was Miles, the medic who had tended to Kathy Ellis’s body. His face was red and angry and the knuckles on his left fist were bloody. I faded away from him and touched my jaw. My hand came away red.

  I shook my head and Miles came in a rush. He was a big guy. I grabbed a dish of peanuts off the bar and threw that in Miles’s face. Salt in the eyes might help.

  He came on and threw that left again. I got away from most of it, but slammed into a table. I felt a sharp pain where I still carried that bullet next to my spine, a souvenir from my Boston P.D. days. Normally I didn’t think much about the slug, but now the pain sent a rush of fear through me. The table stopped me long enough for Miles to get close, land a hard right, and keep punching. He was a head hunter, so I ducked and got my arms up enough to take most of the blows on them. Another left got through and popped my ear, and I fell or was pushed over the table. Miles tossed the table aside as I got up again. I was beginning to feel less ethereal and more angry and frightened.

  I could hear Bob the bartender yelling “Stop! Stop!” but Miles wasn’t stopping. He came on, and hit me again, and suddenly I felt some control snap inside of me. A red veil fell over my eyes, turning the world crimson. I heard an antediluvian noise come out of my throat, and then I was no longer retreating, but going to meet Miles. He swung those big fists, but I brushed them aside as though they were the flapping of moths’ wings, and hit him four times, very hard below the heart. If he struck me again, I didn’t feel his blows. Everything was happening very fast, but it seemed that I had more time than I needed. I could plan things and then do them. I hit Miles on both sides of the jaw, then under his left ear, then in the throat, and when he raised his hands I hit him again under the heart, then stepped back and kicked him hard in the groin. He tried to double over and fall, but before he could do that, I got a hand on his belt and another on his shirt, swung him off his feet, and drove him headfirst into the front of the bar.

  Then he was on his face on the floor, and there was blood in his hair. I had a knee on his spine, that bloody hair in my hand, and I was bending his head back and back, when I became aware of Bonzo’s voice saying, “No, no, J.W.! No, no, J.W. You’ll hurt him bad, J.W.! Please stop, J.W. It’s not good to hurt people! No, J.W.! Don’t hurt him!”

  I saw hands pushing down on the hand that was pulling Miles’s head back, and slowly the red veil fell away and the world became normal in color. The sound that had been in my throat faded and I was panting, pulling great breaths of air into my lungs. I saw that Bonzo owned the hands pushing down on my hand, and that he was trying with his small strength to keep me from breaking Miles’s neck.

  “No, no,” he was saying. “Don’t hurt him, J.W. It’s not nice to hurt people!”

  I took my hand away from Miles’s hair and his head thumped facedown ont
o the floor. I took my knee off his back, and got up. My whole body was shaking. I wondered if my teeth were showing. My fangs.

  Bonzo was in front of me, looking up, patting my arms. “Good boy, J.W. Come on, I think you should have a beer. Come on, J.W., have a beer. It’ll settle your nerves, you know. Come on.”

  He led me away as others gathered around Miles. I took a stool at the far end of the bar, and Bonzo ran around behind the bar and got me a Molson. I took a long pull. The bottle rattled against my teeth.

  People were looking at me with a kind of horror. I spied myself in the mirror. There was blood on my face where Miles had hit me the first time, and blood on my ear, and I had picked up some other scratches somewhere along the line. Only the pain near my spine hurt, but I thought that several parts of me might be painful later. The left leg of my pants had a tear in it, and my shirt was stained with beer, blood, and dirt. There was sawdust in my hair. I didn’t think I looked too bad, but the people in the room apparently saw something that frightened them. In fact, I was more afraid than they were.

  That red veil had fallen before, and I had sworn I would never let it happen again, but it had come out of nowhere, and again I might have killed a man had someone innocent not been there to stop me. Not for the first time I wondered what ancient monsters live deep within us, under the civilized skins we show the world. Under the skin I show to the world. I drank the Molson and waited for the cops to come.

  None did, so after a while I walked to the men’s room, which, at the Fireside, is identified by a stencil of a little boy trying to button up his pants. Fireside wit. Inside, I managed to wash off most of the blood on my head and ear. When I stopped shaking, I came out. The police still hadn’t come.

  Miles was sagging in a booth, being ministered to by members of the audience. He didn’t look good, but he did look as if he’d live to fight another day. Bob the bartender came up to me very carefully.

  “Look,” he said. “Everything’s cool. Why don’t you go home? Bonzo tells me you’re a good guy, so let’s just resolve this without any more problems. Nobody’s called the cops. No need for that. We’ve got everything straightened up, and there hasn’t been any real damage. So why don’t you just go on, and we’ll all just forget about this.”

  “What set him off?” I asked.

  “Hey,” said Bob, in one of those voices people use when they don’t want to rile the person they’re talking to, “Miles has been having some problems. He’s a good man, but he’s been having some problems. I think maybe he just made a mistake, don’t you know? I think maybe something you said just set him off. But he’s a good guy and I don’t want any more trouble. Look, the noon crowd is coming in, and this is a busy time for us. Why don’t you just go home? Tell you what, you come back any time later, and we’ll set you up with whatever you want. Food, beer, whatever. You just leave now, and we’ll be glad to have you back later. What do you say?”

  “I’d like to know why he came on me like that.”

  “He’s been stressed. You know? Look, I don’t want to have to call the cops. Bad for business. You understand? But, Jesus, man, I don’t want no more trouble here, and Miles, he’s not a bad guy. He’s just got problems and I’m afraid he took ’em out on you.” He paused. “Or tried to.” Then, “Bonzo says you’re a good guy, too. Why don’t you just go on home and let us all get on with our business. Okay?”

  I looked at him, and he stepped back. “I don’t want any trouble,” I said. “But I want to know what set him off. I was minding my own business when he hit me. I want to know why he did that.”

  Bob flicked his eyes around the barroom. A lot of people were looking at us. “Listen,” he said. “That girl you were asking Bonzo about. Denise Vale?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s his daughter. You know? She’s tangled up with some guy Miles don’t take to. You understand?”

  If my brain had been a computer, it probably would have started making little clicking noises.

  “Keep talking,” I said.

  Bartenders hear a lot of sad stories. “What do I know?” asked Bob. “Miles and his wife split a couple years back, and the girl went off with Mom. Broke Miles up. And then, the girl comes back this spring and starts hanging around with some guy Miles don’t think shit of. You see how it is? Hey, Miles is an okay guy, but I think this whole bit’s flipped him, this business with his daughter. Bonzo said you two was talking about her when Miles clubbed you. Jesus, mister, first I thought he was going to kill you, and then I thought you was going to kill him. I tell you, I never saw anything like that for years. Christ almighty. Now, I know how you must feel, but look around this place. Everybody’s staring at you wondering what you’re gonna do next. I don’t want that. I just want to serve some lunch to these people and have them forget about what just happened. Not that they will, mind you, but you’d be doin’ me a favor if you’ll just go on home and let all of this settle. What do you say?”

  I looked across the room at Miles. He looked as bad as I felt.

  “Okay,” I said. “Is he all right?”

  Bob put a friendly smile on his face. “Sure. Sure, everything’s cool. Thanks for being a good guy. Sorry this had to happen. You come back, now. Food and drinks on me. Bring a friend.”

  I headed for the door. People parted in front of me like the Red Sea splitting for Moses.

  Outside, the summer air was warm and fresh. I walked up the sidewalk until I got to the Land Cruiser. Like a lot of fishermen, I keep a small first-aid kit in my truck. After all, many a man has been sliced by bluefish teeth or fins, or has managed to hook himself instead of a fish. I found a Band-Aid and, looking in the rearview mirror, stuck it on the split in my skin where Miles had first hit me. I couldn’t figure any way to stick another on my cut ear, so I let that go. I took a couple of aspirin while I was at it, in anticipation of future pains. Then I drove back to Denise Vale’s house and pounded on the door again.

  When the dazed young man appeared, finally got his eyes focused, and recognized me, I asked him when he’d last seen Denise.

  He tried to think about the question, but finally had to give up.

  “She wasn’t here for the party, was she?” I asked.

  “She wasn’t?” He frowned. “Yeah, I guess that’s right. I wonder where she was.” He offered a slack-mouthed grin. “Denise likes to party. Party, party.” He became somber again. “I think maybe I had too much party.”

  “I’m J.W. Jackson. Who are you?”

  “Me? I’m Roy.”

  “Denise Vale has a boyfriend, Roy. Maybe she spent the weekend with him.”

  The” idea seemed to impress him. “Hey, maybe she did.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Who?”

  “The boyfriend.”

  “What about him?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Uhn. Let’s see.” Roy frowned and scratched his belly. “Roy . . . No, that’s me. And you’re J.W. Let’s see . . . George, maybe? No, that’s not it. Rick? Richard? Vance? Something like that.”

  “Does he have a last name?”

  “Uhn. Beats me.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  Roy had no idea.

  “Are you in college, Roy?”

  He yawned and his breath was the fire of dragons. “Yeah. Sure. Princeton.”

  Princeton. “What are you studying?”

  He thought about that and figured it out. “Philosophy,” he said. “Philosophy and religion. Economics. Stuff like that. I’m pre-law. Say, what time is it, buddy?”

  I told him.

  “Jesus,” he said. “I’m supposed to be at work, I think. I better take a shower.”

  I didn’t want to discourage him from doing that, so I left and drove back home to see how my guests were doing.

  They were doing fine. I found a note telling me that Quinn was giving Dave his world-famous guided tour of Edgartown, but that they’d be home in time for an afternoo
n dip in the briny before the cocktail hour. And were we going fishing again in the morning?

  Why not? There weren’t very many mornings when I wasn’t happy to go fishing.

  I took a shower and then made a pita bread sandwich with the remains of last night’s baked bluefish, a slice of Swiss, and some horseradish. Then I found a beer in the fridge and had lunch on the balcony. There was a light east wind, and it felt good. The beach road was lined with parked cars, and the water beyond was busy with boats. On this side of the road, novice surf sailors were taking lessons in the flat waters of Sengekontacket Pond. It was an interesting-looking sport, but I preferred sailing the Shirley J., my eighteen-foot catboat.

  I thought about the Shirley J. In three weeks I’d be sailing in her with Zee on the way to Nantucket. A sailing honeymoon. It played well in my imagination.

  When I was through with lunch, I drove into Edgartown to see the chief of police. My back hurt, but I tried to will away the pain and the worry that went with it.

  — 13 —

  Edgartown is a small village, but it has the best-equipped police station on the island, and well-trained personnel. It has a couple of detectives, a fingerprint lab, a photo lab, and other modern accoutrements. Except for the chief, who prefers to keep his old familiar .38 special, its officers all pack modern 9mm semiautomatics. When I was a Boston cop, I also carried an old .38, but times change.

  I tried the station on Pease Point Way first, but naturally the chief wasn’t there. The department may be modern, but its budget isn’t big enough to allow its chief to sit around in his office all day. Besides, who’d want to sit in an office on as nice a day as this?

  “He’s probably down on Main Street somewhere,” said Kit Goulart, who was behind the front desk. Kit Goulart and her husband are about the same size as a pair of oxen, and could probably outpull most of the teams at the annual county fair, if they had a mind to. I pretended to ogle the badge on Kit’s large bosom, got a laugh in reply, and went into town.