by Philip Craig
“That’s after the Padishah proposes to you?”
She adopted her Scarlett O’Hara accent. “A lady gets many proposals, but she doesn’t accept them all.”
“I’ll make you one you can’t refuse.”
“Oh, how you talk . . .”
I made a lettuce salad and mixed up a bit of honey mustard dressing for it. By then the rice was reheating and the scallops were melted in their plastic bag. I made a not-too-thick roux flavored with garlic, sautéed the scallops in a bit of butter, and poured the scallops and sauce over a plate of rice. Delish! I washed everything down with a half bottle of Vinho Verde, a wine I like even though it never makes the food columns in the Globe. Afterwards: Cognac. As the poet once rhetorically asked, what can wine sellers buy that is better than what they sell?
The next afternoon I picked up Zee and a large box with a bit of white satin hanging out between the bottom and the lid.
“For innocence,” said Zee, tucking the bit of cloth back in out of sight.
“Screw that,” I said. She laughed.
As we pulled up at Amelia’s house we found another car there before us. A large, dark, expensive car.
Zee’s eyes lit up and she clutched my arm. “That’s Willard Blunt’s car! Remember him? You know, I wonder if he’s wooing her! She’s a widow and he’s an old beau and he’s been here a couple of times this week already! Whee!”
Women, for all their complaints about men, love a romance, real or imagined. So do I, for that matter.
“I’m going to sneak in there,” said Zee in a whisper, clutching the box. “Maybe I’ll hear something!”
“Maybe they’ll catch you at the keyhole and give your ear a twist. Serve you right!”
“Shhhh!” Zee grinned and scuttled up to the front door. She glanced back and put a finger to her lips. In the spirit of adventure, I cut the ignition. Zee waved thanks and eased open the front door. I thought I heard voices; then they stopped and Zee stood and spoke and Aunt Amelia appeared, kissed Zee, and waved at me. I waved back and drove away.
The next day, at 9:02 in the morning, after giving my name and showing my brand-new badge to a guard at the gate, I was on the Chappaquiddick estate of Edward C. Damon, political fat cat and ambassador-to-be to Sarofim. As I drove in and parked my rusty LandCruiser, I looked things over.
The house was one of those originally built in the early part of the century when a few wealthy families moved themselves, their servants, and perhaps a cow or two for fresh milk to Chappy for the summer holidays. As the years passed, the Damon house had had wings and taller roofs added, until now it stood wide and high just south of the narrows that link Edgartown Harbor to Katama Bay. It was a great wooden structure, gray shingled, many windowed, balconied and chimnied, with a round tower rising from one corner. Below the house was a boat house and a long dock, alongside of which was tied the family yawl, sixty feet or so of traditional wood and brass, built in the days when, indeed, if you had to ask how much a yacht cost, you couldn’t afford it. A polished catboat and the cigarette boat lay on the other side of the dock.
On the three sides of the house away from the water there were wide lawns sprinkled with large oaks. A tennis court and a green for croquet were set back near a barn that once might have housed the family milk cow but now, I was soon to learn, was storage for an antique car and for the various machines and tools needed to maintain the grounds. On the second floor, in a converted hayloft, was the apartment of the couple who constituted the permanent staff for the estate, a Mr. Outside and his wife, Mrs. Inside. Around the perimeter of the grounds was a well-maintained stone fence and a thick hedgerow entwined with roses, a completely satisfactory barrier to keep in whatever the Damons wanted to keep in and to keep out what they wanted to keep out. The entrance road came through a gateway between two standing granite stones from which a heavy gate was hung.
All in all, I was impressed. My old Toyota looked a bit out of place, and I guessed (rightly, it turned out) that my house would fit into Damon’s dining room.
There was a collection of men and women standing near the front door of the house. I knew some of them. I walked over. Some Vineyard cops and several people with a city look about them. Security folk all, both locals and imports. A man with a list stepped out and stopped me. I gave him my name and showed my badge again. He checked his list, said “You’re late,” and waved me into the group.
Standing on the porch in front of us was a tall man in his fifties wearing a dark summer suit with a faint chalk stripe in it. I had never seen a summer suit with a chalk stripe before. On Martha’s Vineyard the only people who wear suits in the daytime are the lawyers who do business down at the courthouse. You can spot a Vineyard lawyer at two hundred yards.
This was not a Vineyard lawyer, though. It was Jason Thornberry, head of Thornberry Security. Just after I had become a Boston cop, he had left the force to start his own PI and corporate security business. That business was now very big. Thornberry looked smart, smooth, and tough, but for some reason was wearing one of those thin little mustaches that were so popular with movie stars back in the thirties and early forties. I thought it made him look a bit shady, but maybe he thought it made him look like Errol Flynn.
He gave me a hard look, glanced at the man with the list and got a nod in reply, and spoke. His voice was that of a certain kind of doctor: calm, rational, detached, commanding. The voice of authority.
6
Thornberry coolly explained the importance of the occasion. An international event of significance to both the Middle East and the West. He emphasized the need for alertness, cooperation, and discretion on the part of all security personnel, both uniformed and in civilian dress. He wanted each of us to know everything about the physical layout of the estate and the house.
He took us on a slow walk around the grounds, pointing out the locations where uniformed guards with radios would be located: at the gate, along the waterfront, both inside and outside the hedge and stone wall. I thought the security may have been overdone, but said nothing.
He took us into the house and went through it floor by floor, basement to tower, pausing to point out stairways, doors, windows, closets, balconies. Servants—again, I recognized a few locals—were busy in the kitchen or polishing silver or laying out linen cloths on tables. They stood back as we passed by them or interrupted their work, for Thornberry exuded dominance that no maid or butler could withstand.
He led us finally to the great library. Its walls were lined with leather-bound books on dark shelves. The walls between the bookcases were hung with portraits of, I assumed, past Damons. There were tables and reading lamps and leather chairs, and, in a far corner, an ancient steel safe topped by a statue of some goddess or other carved in the late-Victorian style. Two crystal chandeliers, long ago converted from candles to electricity, hung from the high ceilings. A huge Oriental rug, worn thin here and there, but rich and exotic nonetheless, covered most of the floor. The room didn’t look like a place where anyone had ever actually done much reading. Not lately, at least.
At the front of the room rows of chairs had been arranged facing a screen, a large television set, and a VCR. Behind the chairs was a slide projector. We sat down, the lights dimmed, pictures appeared on the screen, and Thornberry spoke, first giving a brief history of the necklace and of its significance on this occasion, then turning to the evening’s scenario.
“There are only four ways for guests to get to or from the estate: by ferry from Edgartown, by boat, by four-wheel-drive vehicle along South Beach, or by helicopter. Because of the limited access to the house, only one hundred guests will be in attendance.” Thornberry paused. “Of course it is also possible to arrive by parachute or hang glider or to both arrive and depart by swimming. However, should you encounter anyone traveling by those means, you may assume the individual is uninvited and act accordingly.”
His mouth flicked up and down, and the security people he had brought with him from Boston ti
ttered quickly, recognizing Thornberry humor. He went on. “The invited guests will arrive by car and boat and are scheduled to be here by six. Naturally there will be delays. The Padishah and his party will be upstairs in the north wing of the house as guests of Mr. Damon. At seven the Padishah and his party will descend the main staircase and he will be greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Damon and Mrs. Damon’s sister, Mrs. Muleto. The Padishah’s party and the Damon party will then join the other guests in the ballroom for champagne.
“Dinner will be served at eight in the dining room and on the terrace. Immediately after coffee, at nine-thirty precisely, if everything goes smoothly, which it rarely does at such events as this . . .” A pause, the quick flick of Thornberry’s mouth, the respondent titter from his hirelings. He continued. “Mrs. Damon will go with Mr. Willard Blunt to the master bedroom where both the real and the paste necklaces have been locked away since yesterday, when Mr. Blunt brought them here from Boston. Mrs. Damon will put on the paste necklace, the safe will be locked, and Mrs. Damon will descend the stairway on Mr. Blunt’s arm. There will be applause. She will then remove the necklace from her own neck and present it to her sister, Mrs. Muleto, who will accept it in the name of the Smithsonian and afterwards place it here”—he pointed to the safe—“for safekeeping.
“Mrs. Damon will return to the master bedroom, this time with both her husband and Mr. Blunt. She will don the real necklace, and the three of them will then descend the main stairs to the ballroom, where they will be met by the Padishah. There will, of course, be more applause. Mrs. Damon will waltz first with her husband and then with the Padishah. Her husband will then remove the necklace from her neck and formally present it to the Padishah, who will accept it on behalf of Sarofim and give Mrs. Damon, in return, a diamond tiara. Afterwards, wearing her tiara, Mrs. Damon and her husband will lead more dancing in the ballroom. The dancing will go on until one o’clock or until the Padishah tires. Whichever comes last.”
Pictures had flashed on the screen as he had spoken, showing the scenes of his narrative. Thornberry paused. “If you think all of this is theatrical, you are right. The Padishah is fond of American films, and Mr. Damon has hired a Hollywood producer, a friend, I’m told, to make the event properly dramatic. It was Wilde, was it not, who observed that only shallow people do not judge by appearances?” Thornberry’s mouth again flickered in what I assumed was his version of a smile.
Unsure about how to respond to Wilde wit, his audience did not, and Thornberry, after a moment, went on as photos of various people appeared and disappeared from the screen.
“The firm of Stonehouse, Chute, Cabot, and Adams has for many years been entrusted with both the emeralds and the pastes. This is Mr. Willard Blunt, who is overseeing the necklaces’ transference from the Stonehouse estate: one to the Padishah and the other to the Smithsonian. The necklaces are, as you know, now under guard in the safe in the master bedroom. Our people are stationed at the doorway of the bedroom, and others are outside the window on the balcony. The windows are locked on the inside, and the door has been locked and will be unlocked by Mr. Blunt himself. Another one of our people will be at the end of the hall leading to the master bedroom. These are the faces of the men guarding the room. Remember them.”
Faces appeared, lingered, and were replaced. I recognized members of our group. They looked like ex-cops. Thornberry liked to have trained people working for him. Pictures of the master bedroom, the hall, and the balcony appeared and disappeared.
“Because the master bedroom contains the safe, Mr. and Mrs. Damon will be dressing farther down the hall in a guest room. Once the transfer of the necklaces has taken place, the firm of Stonehouse, Chute, Cabot, and Adams is no longer in any way responsible for their security. Thornberry Security is responsible until the Padishah and his party depart the country with the jewels. After the emeralds have been presented to the Padishah, they will be returned to the master bedroom, where they will remain under our guard until the Padishah’s departure from the United States.
“Here are faces to remember. Mr. Damon, Mrs. Damon, Mrs. Muleto . . . the Padishah [yes, indeed, it was the helmsman of the cigarette boat]; his wife; Colonel Ahmed Nagy, the Padishah’s personal bodyguard [with a face like a hatchet]; Dr. Mahmoud Zakkut, the Padishah’s personal physician and political advisor; Dr. Omar Youssef, the curator of the National Museum of Sarofim and an internationally known expert on gems who has, by the way, already seen the emeralds and certified that they are the real thing; Mr. Marks and Ms. Johanson, my chief aides . . .” Zee’s picture appeared on the screen, was identified, and went away. There were no pictures of me. “Uniformed personnel will be on duty outside under the supervision of Mr. Marks. Inside the house we will be formally dressed, unobtrusive but alert. Ms. Johanson will be in-house supervisor and will help you in any way she can. Remember one thing: an order from Mr. Marks or Ms. Johanson is an order from me.”
The slide screen went blank and the television screen lit up. Thornberry’s voice changed a tone or two. “I expect no problems tonight, but there is something you should know. The nation of Sarofim is politically unstable at the moment. The Padishah has enemies. Representatives of the opposition are said to have arrived on Martha’s Vineyard, and an embarrassment to the Padishah would serve their cause. There has been violence in Sarofim and in Europe. This is a film clip of men and women thought to be members of the Sarofim Democratic League, one of the organizations believed to be responsible for revolutionary activities against the Padishah.” The screen flickered and Middle Eastern faces, youthful and laughing, appeared. Another cut showed faces in a crowd on an American street. “Those were taken two weeks ago in Weststock, Massachusetts, where they are students,” said Thornberry’s voice. “Now they have disappeared, probably by moving in with Sarofimian students studying in Boston. The intellectuals of Sarofim are often supportive of the SDL. Keep your eyes open for these people and for others like them. Sarofimians are not necessarily easy to spot. Be alert and suspicious.”
The television went off, the lights went on, and Ms. Johanson took charge of me and my fellow insiders and explained where she wanted us during the evening’s festivities. I got to be in the ballroom, with roving opportunities elsewhere on the ground floor. I was a downstairs person.
“You come on duty at five,” said the efficient Ms. Johanson as she dismissed us. She looked at me. “Can you arrange a ride with somebody else? That car of yours looks terrible.”
Ms. Johanson wasn’t a bad-looking woman. “How about with you?” I asked.
Ms. Johanson did not smile. “There’s a spot about a hundred yards outside the gate. You can park there. Hide that machine in the trees if you can.”
She went away and so did I. Off to Vineyard Haven to collect my rented tux. On the way I looked for revolutionary Sarofimians but didn’t see a one. I suspected that I might be on their side, if I ever happened to find their side.
7
The northeast wind that had blown in the clean dry weather had gone away, and the day was muggy, with a thin overcast of high clouds. Undaunted by the paleness of the sun, the August people were out on the beach between Edgartown and Oak Bluffs, making the most of the warm weather. There were kites in the sky, surf sailors just off the beach, children and adults in the warm summer water. Out on the Sound the sailboats moved between the Vineyard and the dim haze that hid Cape Cod, and there were fishermen on the Jetties and kids diving from the bridges into the channels that linked Anthier’s Pond to the sea.
In Oak Bluffs there were boats anchored near the ferry dock, with fishermen trying for bonito. It didn’t look like the fishermen were having much luck, but none of them seemed to be complaining. And no wonder: fishermen think going fishing is usually better than anything else you might want to, do; besides, if you actually hooked a bonito you would really have a good time. Bonitos give you a real fight. I even know some guys who no longer go bluefishing because they like bonito fishing so much better. Personally I do not subscri
be to that radical view.
On the far side of Oak Bluffs I passed the hospital where Zee was not working that day. She was busy getting herself and Aunt Amelia properly gussied up for the big event that night. Why so much time? I should have asked just to make trouble. A man wouldn’t understand, she’d have said, me in particular. True.
I drove on into Vineyard Haven, hoping but not expecting to find a parking place not too far from the store that was renting me my formal duds. Vineyard Haven has the worst driving and parking conditions on all of Martha’s Vineyard. The dreaded T, where the Edgartown road intersects the State Road and left turners routinely are backed up for eternities, is second in frustration only to the infamous Five Corners downtown where the ferries unload and traffic is routinely complete chaos.
Vineyard Haven natives are no doubt used to such messes and in no hurry to do anything about them, but those of us who live elsewhere dread our visits there. It is a paradox too obvious to merit comment that most of the traffic on and off the island goes through Vineyard Haven and that the town houses the Vineyard’s best stores and that therefore we often have to go there whether we like it or not. I mean it’s not like Gay Head, which is a place you only go to because you choose to. You have to go to Vineyard Haven sometimes.
I found a parking place right on Main Street. Another sign that there is a God? Inside my store the salesgirl and I looked each other over as she got my tux.
“We don’t get many calls for this size,” she observed in what I took to be arrapproving tone. She ran her eyes up and down while I did the same.
I smiled modestly and didn’t tell her that I’d ordered the jacket a size big to allow Manny Fonseca’s hefty pistol to hang less obviously under my arm.
She wore a diamond on her left hand. The hand touched my arm. She was a nice looking young woman. A college girl, I suspected, about ready to go back to the books and not above a last flirtation. “You’re a big guy,” she smiled.
