A Case of Vineyard Poison

by Philip R. Craig

  The chief was strolling along the sidewalk on Main, headed down from the courthouse. Naturally there weren’t any parking places on Main, so I drove past him to Water Street, hooked a right, then a left, and parked the Land Cruiser on Collins Beach, just beyond the No Parking sign. Fishermen park on Collins Beach all the time and don’t get tickets because Edgartown is a boating town, and the police prefer to ignore the local trucks parked on the sand.

  I walked back to Main, passing under the giant Pagoda Tree that some sea captain brought to the island in a flowerpot back in the 1800’s, and wondering once again how many giant Pagoda Trees there were in the United States. Had there ever been a Johnny Pagodaseed, spreading pagoda trees across the frontier for the use of future generations? If so, my history books had overlooked him.

  Edgartown’s streets were full of tourists wearing shorts and sandals and pastels. It seemed like the middle of July, but it was only June. More people every year. Good news for the merchants, no doubt, but a subject of constant griping among a lot of year-rounders, who greatly enjoyed talking about the good old days when there weren’t all these cars and their accompanying traffic jams, when there were still parking places, and when you could walk downtown and know the people you met.

  I caught up with the chief at the parking lot in front of the yacht club.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “You live up there in the woods and you never come to town in the summertime unless you have to or you want something from somebody.” He looked at my face. Then he took my chin in his hand and turned my head first one way, then the other. “And what door did you walk into? A revolving one, looks like. You okay?”

  “I’ll live. What do you know about Miles Vale?”

  “What about him?”

  “First time I ever saw him was when the medics were working on the Ellis girl up in my driveway. Since he was with the ambulance, I figure he must live here in Edgartown. And since you’re the chief of Edgartown’s finest and know everybody and everything that happens in town, I figured you might know something about Miles Vale.”

  “Like I said, what about him? Miles do this to you?”

  “What kind of a guy is he? I hear his wife left him, and that their daughter went with Mom. Then, I hear, the daughter came back to the island and started hanging around with some guy Miles doesn’t like. That’s all I know about Miles.”

  “Miles do that to your face?”

  “Why? Does Miles have a reputation for beating people up?”

  “Did Miles beat you up?” The chief was suddenly very official.

  “I hear people say Miles is a good guy. Fella up in Oak Bluffs told me that. Tony D’Agostine told me that, too. No, Miles didn’t beat me up.”

  The chief thought for a second. “Did Miles try to beat you up?”

  “The last time I saw Miles, he was sitting in a booth in a bar, surrounded by well-wishers. Look, all I want to know is what kind of a guy Miles is. If he’s a good guy, why did you think he might have tried to beat me up? Does he beat other people up?”

  “Just hold on a minute. First, tell me. If Miles didn’t beat you up, did you beat up Miles?”

  “Miles is fine.” I wondered if he really was. I hoped so.

  “All right,” said the chief. “You don’t talk to me, I don’t talk to you. Have it your own way.”

  “About Miles, now . . .”

  “Miles who?”

  “Miles Vale.”

  “Never heard of him.” The chief dug his pipe out of his pocket, checked to see if there was any tobacco in it, and lit up. Knowing my weakness, he blew a bit of smoke my way.

  I don’t miss cigarettes anymore, but the smell of a pipe still makes my nose start to work. Every time I get a whiff of pipe smoke, I decide that I’ll break out my corncobs and briars again. They were still in their rack at home, although I hadn’t used them in years. I inhaled the chief’s smoke.

  “You’re a mean bastard,” I said, inhaling again. He blew some more smoke. “I don’t have to stand here,” I said. “I can just go home.” He blew a smoke ring that disintegrated in the southwest wind. “All right,” I said. “Miles took a swing at me up in the Fireside.”

  “Looks like he connected. Tell me about it.”

  “You know how these barroom battles go. You push each other around until you both get tired. Nothing much comes of it.”

  “Who pushed last?”

  “Let’s call it a draw.”

  “Why did he swing at you?”

  “The bartender says it’s because he heard me asking Bonzo about his daughter, Denise. I guess that Miles gets testy when guys are interested in his daughter, so he took a poke at me.”

  “Why were you asking about Denise Vale?”

  “I wanted to ask her a couple of questions.”

  “What about?”

  “I wanted to ask her what she thinks the chances are of the Patriots making the Super Bowl. Denise is supposed to have a boyfriend that Miles doesn’t like. Do you know who that might be?”

  “Is that what you were going to ask her?”

  “Yeah. For one thing. Do you know who the boyfriend is?”

  The chief tried another smoke ring. No better luck. He looked up Dock Street, then up” Main Street. Cops look around a lot. “You want to get his opinion on the Super Bowl, too, I imagine.”

  “I’d be happy just to know who he is.”

  “Well, I can’t help you. When Janice left Miles, Denise went with her. The two of them went out to live in her old hometown in New York. The girl went with her mother because Miles never liked any of the boys she knew here. None of them was ever good enough for Miles. Probably he’s got one of those Freudian complexes they talk about. Not Oedipus, some other one. The one where Dad doesn’t want to let go of his little girl. There must be a complex like that. These psychologists have a name for everything there is and some for things that don’t exist.”

  “But the girl came back.”

  “Yeah. This spring. But she isn’t living with Dad. She’s someplace else.”

  “Up in Oak Bluffs, with a bunch of college kids in a sort of communal house. But she’s not there right now. Been gone a couple of days. That’s why I was at the Fireside. She works there. I thought somebody might know where she is.”

  “You know more about her than I do, then.”

  “I figured she might have moved in with her boyfriend.”

  “If she did, they better not let Miles find out.”

  “Do you know who the boyfriend is? Is he some island guy she came back to?”

  “I don’t know who he is. All I know is what I hear from the other medics who work with Miles. I guess Miles thinks it’s some off-island guy Denise met in college or somewhere. Whoever it is, Miles doesn’t like him any more than he liked any of the other guys who wanted to date Denise.”

  “Miles sounds like a sick guy. You can’t keep your daughter from having boyfriends.”

  “What do you know? How many daughters do you have?”

  A point well taken. But in fact, since I was about to get married, I had actually given the matter some thought. If Zee and I ever had a daughter, how would I feel about the guys who came to her door? I wasn’t even married yet, but already I felt protective of my little girl. So how was I going to feel when she was a teenager, old enough to make a lot of her own decisions? Worse, for sure. Who were these acne-faced characters on my doorstep, anyway? Only one thing on their minds, probably. Maybe Miles was right after all.

  “Do you know where Miles’s wife lives in New York?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Pretty name, that’s why it stuck with me. Place called Swan Lake. Not too far from NYC. I guess it used to be one of those borscht circuit resorts, where the city people went during the summer. Maybe it still is. Pretty name.”

  “Well, well,” said a voice, “look who’s here.”

  I turned and found Quinn and Dave walking up. They looked quite touristy in their sandals, summer pant
s, and pastel shirts. Dave, I noticed, had bought himself one that said “Martha’s Vineyard” across the front. Just the kind of guy the tee-shirt shops love to see.

  “This is Zee’s cousin Dave, from New Bedford,” I said to the chief. He and Dave shook hands.

  “And this is Quinn, down from Boston.”

  This time the handshake was shorter and more formal.

  “I remember you,” said the chief. “That story a while back about the drug bust. Sharp island drug guys and the not-so-smart cops who caught the little fish but let the big ones slip away.”

  Quinn held up both hands. “That was then, Chief. This is now. I’m on vacation. Besides, I don’t remember picking on you. I picked on the DEA guys, as I recall.”

  “Yeah. Well, they all went home afterward, but some of us live here and had to take the barbs from the local wise guys.”

  “That goes with the job,” said the unrepentant Quinn. “The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, I think they call that stuff. I never knew a cop that didn’t need a thick skin sometimes. No different here than anywhere else.” Then he suddenly changed his tone. “Look, Chief, someday I may be down here again on some other story. If that ever happens, I’ll want you working with me instead of against me. I want friends on police forces, not enemies. A cop who’s mad at me is no help to me. So let me buy you a beer when you get off duty, okay?”

  “You made the cops look bad,” said the chief, who can be just as stubborn as the next guy.

  “No,” said Quinn. “They ended up looking bad because they blew the bust, not because of anything I wrote. All I did was report the truth.”

  The chief was not so fond of the DEA that he wanted to defend its members enthusiastically, so he contented himself with a grunt for a reply, and turned to Dave.

  “So you’re Zee’s cousin, eh? Down for the wedding?”

  “Oh no,” said Dave. “Afraid not. Got to get back to work at the end of the week. First time down here. Beautiful place.”

  “Yeah,” said the chief. “Say, have we met someplace before?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Dave. “You ever been over to New Bedford? I have a frame shop over there.”

  “Haven’t been over there for a long time. And you’ve never been here?”

  “No, but I’ll sure try to get back again, now that I know what the place is like.”

  “You sure look like somebody I’ve seen,” said the chief. He knocked his pipe out against a light pole. “Well, I’ve got to meander along. Nice to meet you, gentlemen. You’d better go stick your face in a bowl of liniment, J.W.”

  He went off toward the town dock.

  “He’s right about that face,” said Quinn with interest. “How’d you get that, anyway?”

  I gave him the chief’s revolving door theory, but I don’t think he believed me. Instead, he gestured toward the Navigator Room.

  “What you need is a drink,” he said. “On me.”

  “Two golden words I thought I’d never live long enough to hear,” I said. “Lead on.”

  And in we went.

  — 14 —

  The Navigator Room offers its customers Edgartown’s finest public view of the inner harbor. There are tables both inside and outside, where you can sit and watch the boats at anchor or going by. At the closest dock you can rent a day sailer or an outboard motorboat, should you be so inclined. Once, when I was in high school, I taught sailing there for a summer. Beyond the dock, not too far out, the Shirley J. swings on her stake.

  We drank our beers while Quinn unfolded his copy of the Globe and showed us the latest story about the increasingly mysterious disappearance of David Greenstein. Local hospitals and private clinics had been approached by reporters. The physicians of the stars had been interviewed. Inquiries had been directed at friends, relatives, and professional associates. No one acknowledged knowing anything. Some people were beginning to suspect foul play. Kidnapping, perhaps? But there was no ransom being demanded.

  “What do you think of that ransom bit?” Quinn asked me. “How long will it be before the notes and calls start coming in?”

  “Not long,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Dave in surprise. Then he lowered his voice and leaned forward. “I haven’t been kidnapped, for God’s sake!”

  “Yeah,” said Quinn. “We know that, but who else does? Some people are going to try to make some money out of this before it’s over.”

  “Whenever there’s a major crime,” I said to Dave, “people who didn’t have anything to do with it like to get involved. They’ll confess to murder, for instance. There are people up in Boston who confess to every murder they hear about. In this case, somebody or some group is going to send a ransom message saying they’ve got you, but they’ll let you go for X amount of money.”

  “Good lord,” said Dave. “That’s no good. What if somebody believes them?”

  “Exactly,” said Quinn. “That’s why we’ll have to make a couple of phone calls to assure people that you’re fine. One to your manager and one to your family ought to do it. What do you think, J.W.?”

  “That should do it. You do the talking, Dave, so they’ll know it’s really you. Just a few words, so the call can’t be traced.”

  “We’ll use a public phone, just in case,” said Quinn. “And just to make double sure that everybody knows you’re okay, you can call the Globe and Herald music critics and let them spread the news.”

  Dave drank his beer and licked the foam from his lips. “Exciting times. I’ll try to remember all this the next time I play hookey.”

  “You just make sure that you get on a slower schedule,” said Quinn, in a paternal tone. “That way, you won’t get worn out and won’t have to do this sort of thing again.”

  “Gosh, you sound just like Uncle Quinn,” I said. “Maybe even Father Quinn.”

  Quinn suggested that I try a difficult physical act.

  We finished our beers and went outside, where we found a public phone right on the back of the Junior Yacht Club. It didn’t offer much privacy, but we pooled our change and Dave made his four quick calls while Quinn and I got between him and the tourists strolling by, so no one could hear him. When he hung up the phone, Dave seemed satisfied. “I am alive and well and unkidnapped,” he said happily.

  I wondered how much background noise had gotten through, and whether it made any difference. Probably not, since street sounds are more or less the same wherever you go. Besides, the people Dave had talked to probably weren’t listening to background noises anyway.

  Of course, if anybody was taping the calls coming in to those phones, the background sounds might become subjects of professional study. Even then, though, I doubted if they’d mean much. Besides, Dave would be back in public before much longer, probably before anybody could make anything of the phone calls. Dave had been quick with his calls, so I was pretty sure none of them had been traced.

  I also had some phone calls that I wanted to make, but I would make them from home.

  “Nice town,” said Dave. “Great flowers in people’s yards, terrific boats in the harbor. A beautiful place.”

  True. At the four corners, Dave and Quinn took a right along North Water Street on their way to their car and I went left on South Water on the way to mine. I drove home and phoned the hospital. Zee was there.

  “How are things?” I asked.

  “Things are okay.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I think this getting married idea sounds better and better. That way I’ll get to talk to you in person instead of over the singing wires.”

  “I agree.” There was a slight pause. “Mom’s coming on the six o’clock boat.”

  “Mom. As I understand it, she’s the old-fashioned sort who wouldn’t cotton to the idea of me spending any more time up there, or you spending it down here at my place.”

  “You got it, sweetheart. Until they start throwing rice, it’s celibacy city for us, I’m afraid.”

  �
��You don’t suppose I’ll actually explode before that, do you?”

  “Try not to!”

  “I imagine I’m going to meet Mom before too much longer.”

  “Ah, I’m glad you brought that up. How about tomorrow night? I’m going to give her a day to get herself all together, and then I think you should come up for supper. Give you both a chance to look each other over. Can you do that?”

  “As long as I don’t have to wear a tie.”

  “Wear whatever you like. Six o’clock?”

  “Six sounds good.”

  “How are your guests?”

  “We’re fishing in the morning.”

  “Rats. You’ll be fishing, and I’ll be here with my mother.”

  “That’s what you get for being a bride-to-be. We manly men do not vary our routines for a mere impending marriage.”

  Zee advised me to try the same difficult physical act that Quinn had suggested.

  “I’d rather have you do it,” I said.

  “Not until the rice flies, I’m afraid. Six o’clock, then?”

  “Six it is.”

  I found a Sam Adams in the fridge and thought about things. Then I dialed Ma Bell and got Janice Vale’s number in Swan Lake, New York. It was mid-afternoon, and I wasn’t sure that anybody would be home, but a woman’s voice answered.

  “Mrs. Vale?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is J.W. Jackson. I’m calling from Martha’s Vineyard. I’m trying to locate a friend of your daughter, and I thought perhaps you can help me.”

  She hesitated. “What’s this all about, Mr. Jackson? Why don’t you just ask Denise?”

  “I’m having trouble contacting her. Besides, this is a confidential matter, Mrs. Vale. I don’t want to frighten anyone unnecessarily.”

  “I don’t keep confidences from my daughter, Mr. Jackson. Perhaps you should know that before you go on. What’s this about, anyway? What do you mean you don’t want to frighten anyone? Frighten who?”

  “If you want to tell your daughter about our conversation, please do so. Let me explain. Your ex-husband attacked me this morning because he thought he heard me mention your daughter’s name. He seems insanely jealous of any man who might be close to her.”