A Case of Vineyard Poison

by Philip R. Craig

  I looked at Helen. “Clotho is spinning-her web,” I said.

  “First, the star is a word, and now Clotho is spinning her web.” She shook her head. “Everything’s a mystery. I must have been culturally deprived as a child.”

  — 21 —

  “The star in the wind is an image in a Walt Kelly poem,” said Matt.

  “And Clotho is one of the fates,” I said. “The one who spins the thread of our destiny before Lachesis measures how long it will be and Atropos cuts it off.”

  “Oh,” said Helen. “Illiterate me.”

  I patted her hand. “It’s all a matter of having read Pogo and Classic Comics. Unlike Matt here, most bankers-to-be don’t waste their time on such stuff. They’re buried in The Wall Street Journal from the time they’re in kindergarten. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Helen. “I won’t.” She turned to Matt. “I’d like to talk to somebody at Frazier Information Systems. They’re here in town somewhere, aren’t they? I’ve never met her, but in the past I’ve talked on the phone with a woman named Maple Appleyard.”

  He nodded. “Their place is just beyond the big traffic circle, going toward Falmouth. My car, such as it is, is at your disposal.” He flipped again through his little notebook and tore out a page. “Here’s the address. I’ve talked to Maple, too, by the way.” He looked at me. “I know it sounds like a made-up name, but it’s real. Her parents gave her the first one, and she got the second one from her husband. She says she only married him so she could have the name. She runs FIS’s Hyannis office.” He handed Helen a set of keys and pointed at a middle-aged Ford down the street.

  “We’ll leave the car in the lot behind the bank,” said Helen. “I’ll lock it and put the keys on top of the left front tire.” She gestured to the waitress. “I’ll get this bill.”

  Neither gentleman at the table argued at all.

  The big traffic circle is inland from downtown Hyannis. Highways sprout from it in various directions, and along Route 28 toward Falmouth we soon found Frazier Information Services housed in a large wooden building occupied by various businesses.

  Inside, a secretary looked at Helen’s card, made a call, and waved us into an office. A woman in her thirties, wearing a business suit and shoes with one-inch heels, came to meet us. Her hair was brown and thick, and was tucked up in some sort of bun.

  For reasons which elude me, businesswomen seem to think that they have to do severe things with their hair and clothing in order to command respect. I tend to judge people by how they behave and what they say, rather than by how they dress.

  On the other hand, even Zee, who is about as independent as they come, knots her hair up and wears a uniform when she’s working, and I had worn chopped hair and a uniform while I was in the army and while I was a cop. So maybe I didn’t have a case.

  Such were my lofty thoughts as we sat down in front of Maple Appleyard’s desk, and I tuned into the conversation that had already started.

  “I’m afraid that I can’t introduce you to Glen Gordon,” Maple was saying. “This is one of his beach days. Tomorrow is another one. He earned them by working nights last week. I think he said that there’s some sort of a musical bash this coming weekend—a rock concert or some such thing up near Boston—so he’s managed to get himself four days off in a row.”

  “Isn’t that a little unusual?” asked Helen.

  “We try to be as flexible as we can, as far as scheduling is concerned. Women with small children—men, too, for that matter—can work unconventional hours so they can be home with the kids when they have to be. That sort of thing. We know that life doesn’t happen on a schedule. Some people can work eight to five, and others can’t. So we let people set their own schedules as much as possible.”

  “Doesn’t that make it difficult for a manager?”

  “Maybe. On the other hand, I’m not always here between dawn and dusk myself. Sometimes I put in long shifts and sometimes I’m gone for a day and one of my assistants takes over. The secret is to have good people working for you.”

  “I’d think your productivity might suffer.”

  “It doesn’t. Or if it does, then we have a talk with whoever isn’t pulling his load. Usually we can work out a resolution. We change a shift, we adjust responsibilities, we try different solutions. If it’s something we can work out, we work it out. Maybe the person just can’t do full-time work here and full-time work at home. We might let him do part-time work until things at home get better, then bring him back full-time. If somebody needs more training, we try to see that he gets it.

  “But if we decide that the person just can’t do the work, we do what any business would do: we let him go. We’re only going to stay in business as long as we can deliver the goods, so they have to be delivered. The biggest difference between us and most other businesses is that we really don’t care where and exactly when our people do their job, as long as it gets done on time.”

  Maple Appleyard made a small gesture with her hand. “As far as Glen Gordon is concerned, he’s been with FIS for five years, ever since he got out of college, and he’s good at his work, so if he wants to work a few nights so he can get some days off, it’s okay with us. He’s got an excellent record, and he’s very dependable.”

  Helen nodded. “I’m glad to hear that flextime works well for you. You say Glen Gordon has been with you for five years?”

  Maple Appleyard nodded. “Ever since he got out of NYU. He was with our New York office for four years, then transferred up here.” She allowed herself a smile. “I suspect it had something to do with a woman. Someone who lives in this area.”

  “But it was your gain, whatever his motive.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “I’m not a banker,” I said. “Maybe you can tell me how you work with, say, Helen’s bank. It might help me think a little straighter.”

  Maple Appleyard looked first at me, then at Helen.

  “We’re working together,” said Helen.

  “On something that involves FIS, I take it.” Maple Appleyard was suddenly all business. “That makes it my business, too. Before I go much further, perhaps you’ll enlighten me. What is this matter you’re both involved in?”

  Bankers and accountants, however reluctant they themselves are to impart information, are as eager as anyone else to get it. Maple Appleyard listened while Helen and I told her about the oddly large bank accounts of Kathy Ellis and Denise Vale, of the checks made out to the New Bedford, Woods Hole and Nantucket Salvage Company, and of the fact that both Kathy and Denise apparently knew Glen Gordon.

  When we were done, she nodded. “I see. You want to talk to Glen Gordon to see what, if anything, he can tell you about those accounts. I’m sorry that he isn’t here, but I’ll make sure he contacts you when he comes in on Monday. Meanwhile, I will definitely take a look at them myself.”

  “How does the system work?” I asked. “Like I said, I know nothing about banking.”

  Again, Maple looked first at Helen. Then she leaned back in her chair and put her fingers together.

  “We’ve done business with the Vineyard Haven National Bank for many years. However, the bank is now going to have its own computerized accounts and will no longer require our services. At the moment, we’re transferring the accounts we’ve handled to the bank’s new computer system.

  “The system is called DDA, short for Demand Deposit Accounting. Every customer has an account with a particular number. A balance for that account remains constant until a withdrawal or a deposit is made, at which time the amount in the account is adjusted accordingly. Nothing else can change the balance in an account.”

  “Even you can understand that part, J.W.,” said Helen, patting my knee.

  Maple Appleyard allowed herself a small smile and went on. “The accounts are split up into cycles, and there are about a thousand accounts to a cycle. Everything has to balance. If anyone tries to alter the balance of the cycle by any means other th
an a legal deposit or withdrawal, the cycle will be out of balance and that fact will be noted instantly.”

  I raised my hand like a child who wants to go to the bathroom. “I read somewhere about somebody making a lot of money by stealing the cents from rounding down instead of rounding up. Lots of pennies nobody missed became lots of dollars that the guy really enjoyed spending until he got caught.”

  “I know that story,” said Maple Appleyard. “But there isn’t any rounding in DDA accounts. In all these years, we’ve never had any trouble at all with the Vineyard Haven National Bank accounts. They’ve always balanced to the penny.”

  “I agree,” said Helen. “If somebody is stealing money from the bank, they’re being pretty clever about it.”

  “Maybe so,” I said, “but two college girls who can save a hundred thousand dollars apiece while they do summer work on Martha’s Vineyard are pretty clever, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Maybe not as clever as you think,” murmured Helen. “One of them is dead, remember, and the other is missing.”

  True. I looked at Maple Appleyard. “That’s another reason I’d like to talk to Glen Gordon,” I said. “He knew both of the girls personally. I think he may have been dating both of them.”

  She sat back. “And one of the girls is dead and the other one missing, you say. Tell me about that.”

  I did. She listened and then leaned forward and pressed a button on a speaker. “Bring in Glen Gordon’s file, please.”

  A moment later, the secretary came in, placed a file on her desk, and went back out through the door. Maple Appleyard opened the file and flipped through it, then returned to the first page, which contained a photo. She turned the file toward us and we looked at the smiling face of a young man.

  “That’s our Glen Gordon. I can’t imagine him being involved in the death or disappearance of anyone. Is that the man you’re interested in?”

  I decided not to point out that a lot of serial killers are guys most people couldn’t imagine being involved in the deaths or disappearances of others. “I’m interested in Glen Gordon,” I said, “but I don’t know if that’s him. I’ve never seen him or his picture. All I have is his name. Can I have a copy of this to show to some people on the Vineyard?”

  Again, Maple Appleyard pressed the speaker button and gave quick directions to the secretary, who came in, took the photo, and went out again.

  “There’s a photo place just down the road,” said Maple. “They owe me a favor.”

  “Can we look at the file?” I asked, pointing at the folder.

  “Our files are confidential,” she said, frowning.

  “Then maybe you can give me some information that’s in there. When did Glen graduate, and what was his major?”

  She looked at the file and gave us the information. There wasn’t much that was new. Glen Gordon was a math and computer major, and had indeed graduated five years earlier. We did get the home address and telephone number he’d given when applying for work at FIS. If he was like most young college grads, he’d used his family’s phone and address when making his application.

  After a bit, the secretary came back with an envelope containing two copies of Glen Gordon’s photograph. Maple Appleyard gave them to us, and Helen and I exchanged glances and stood up.

  Maple Appleyard came around the desk to shake hands with us. “I’m going to be looking into this matter very seriously. I don’t know that anything is wrong, but if there’s anything illegal going on, I’ll find out about it. If I can locate Glen, I’ll talk to him immediately. I’ll see him next Monday at the latest. Do keep me informed, and I’ll contact you with any information relevant to this business.”

  Helen and I went out and got into Matt Jung’s car. Helen looked at her watch. “Let’s, drive down to Falmouth and have a look at the P.O. box that belongs to the New Bedford et al. Salvage Company. We can turn up the collars of our trench coats and lean against the wall until somebody shows up to collect the mail, then we can either nail him on the spot or trail him back to his hideout.”

  “You’re scary,” I said.

  We drove down to Falmouth and found the box, but we didn’t see anyone come for the mail.

  “I wish I had a badge,” said Helen. “I’d go ask some questions about the people who use this box.”

  “It happens,” I said, “that I do have a badge. Stand there and try to look like a policewoman.”

  Helen beamed and I went over to the window where the mail was handed out. The fact that my badge was the old one I’d used while I was on the Boston P.D. didn’t make much difference. A badge is a badge to most people. I let the guy behind the window get a quick look at it, asked him if I could talk to him confidentially, then, in a very small voice, asked him about the people who used the box.

  As people do when spoken to in small voices, he lowered his own. The box, he explained, was in the name of the New Bedford, Woods Hole and Nantucket Salvage Company. The people who used it were a man he thought he remembered being identified as the treasurer of the company and the woman who was his assistant. Nobody else used the box, as far as he knew. No, he didn’t recognize the name Cecil Jones; no, there wasn’t a lot of mail delivered in the box; and no, there wasn’t any particular time of day when the mail was picked up.

  I thanked him in my small voice and went back to Helen.

  “Well?” she asked, as we went out.

  “Zero,” I said.

  Back in Hyannis, we left Matt Jung’s car behind his bank, and tried and failed to find Matt himself. Matt’s videotape of Cecil Jones would have to be sent to us later. We ate sandwiches in the same cafe where we’d lunched, and walked to the dock where we caught the Hy-line back to the island. It was a lovely crossing, and I admired the soft summer sea while I wondered what I had learned during the day.

  After delivering Helen back to her house in Vineyard Haven, I stopped by Beth Goodwin’s place. Beth was still at work, so I didn’t get my hands on her film either. More zero: I drove on home.

  — 22 —

  When I got out of the old Land Cruiser, I could hear the music coming from the house. Keyboard music. I thought I recognized something by Chopin. I wasn’t anxious for it to stop, so I sat on the porch and listened.

  It was clear that Dave was ready to go back to the world of music that he’d left so precipitously not many days before. The Vineyard can do that to you: revive you and make you well when another world has made you ill.

  After a while the music ended, and I went inside.

  Quinn was having a cognac and Dave was sipping a beer. There was a plate on the coffee table containing the remains of a fillet of smoked bluefish, some Brie, and some crackers.

  “Sounded good,” I said.

  Dave flexed his fingers. “Got to get limbered up if I’m going to get out of the bullpen and back up on the mound.”

  “Are you ready to get up there again?”

  “I am.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Quinn. “Me, too, I guess. The first story I’m going to write, and the one that will endear me to my boss again after this disappearing act I just pulled, is going to be the true tale of David Greenstein’s escape from the concert stage. It’ll be a genuine scoop, and I’ll be back in everybody’s good graces.”

  “Except my manager’s, of course,” smiled Dave.

  “Hey, my golden prose will even win his hard heart,” said Quinn. “You’re going to emerge as a really terrific guy. Your manager will love me. Your fans will love you. The concert organizers will sell more tickets than ever before. The record companies will pay you a fortune for new disks. Women will swoon when they hear your name. You’ll be right up there with Elvis. It’s going to be terrific, and all because of me.”

  “Immortality,” I said to Dave. “And you’re still so young.”

  “Another god in the celestial hierarchy,” agreed Dave. “When it’s destiny, you can’t fight it.”

  “When are you headed back? When does the triumphal march
begin?”

  “I have a car reservation on the 7 a.m. boat the day after tomorrow,” said Quinn.

  “It’s really been good down here,” said Dave. “I’ll be back.”

  I too had come down to the island to get away from a world taut with pressure. But though the island had cured us both, I, unlike Dave, had no plans to return whence I’d come.

  “And what have you been up to?” asked Quinn.

  I told them about my day.

  “Ah,” said Quinn. “Possible skulduggery afoot. Do you need an ace reporter’s inquiring mind and dogged patience to help you figure out what’s going on?”

  “I thought you were on vacation.”

  “That was earlier,” said Quinn. “Like Dave, here, I’m going back to work and I need to warm up first.”

  “In spite of your efforts to be lazy, you’re a born drone.”

  “The fourth estate is my kingdom, and I live to serve. What do you need to know that you don’t know?”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to be here one m6re day, you’ve got a phone, and I’ve got a card that lets me charge calls to the office. While Dave, here, flexes his fingers and gets his piano muscles back in shape, I can make some calls and maybe get some information you need but don’t have. Who knows? I might be able to get a story out of it.”

  Quinn was a very good reporter. He was gifted with a nose that could sniff the faintest smells of vice, and claws that could dig up secrets buried deep.