Vineyard Shadows

by Philip R. Craig

  The corner of Whelen's lip curled up. “You don't care who gets killed as long as it doesn't happen on Martha's Vineyard.”

  I thought of Carla and her sons and of the sorrow they would bear if Tom Rimini died.

  “I care,” I said, “but a long time ago I decided I was tired of trying to make the world a perfect place. I came down here to be a fisherman and to live a quiet life. You and your kind have made my wife a killer and given me bad dreams, so I want you and all the other people in this sorry affair to finish your business some other place. The farther away, the better.”

  “Watch your mouth,” said Todd.

  “If we go into the farm the way you went in, we can turn that ambush around,” said Whelen.

  “I don't want that,” I said.

  “Shut up,” said Todd. “Who the fuck cares what you want?”

  My mouth was dry as Death Valley. “If you go down there, I'll be going to the cops.”

  Sonny's voice got very cold. “Dead men tell no tales,” he said.

  “You owe me this,” I said. “Your boys Logan and Trucker did my wife and daughter wrong.”

  “And paid for it.”

  “And I just saved your life. You take your war off island and we're square.”

  Behind me, I heard a sound that might have been that of a pistol being cocked.

  “Hold it, Todd,” said Whelen. He stared at me. “You're a hard case, Mr. Jackson.”

  “No, I'm just a man who likes peace and quiet.” He nodded. “You go home now, Mr. Jackson. I'll keep in mind what you've just said. Todd, show Mr. Jackson to the door and tell Sean to come in here. Good-bye, Mr. Jackson. Nice talking with you.”

  I turned and went out the door, walking on legs that felt like melting ice.

  — 27 —

  As I drove back to Edgartown, I found myself having contradictory thoughts about Carla. She deserved a better man than the lying, adulterous, murderous Tom I thought I knew; but on the other hand, maybe she didn't know that man at all, but knew, instead, a Tom unknown to me, a quiet schoolteacher Tom, who, in spite of his weakness for gambling, could give her the stable and secure life that she'd never felt she had when she'd been married to me.

  You could never tell how people saw each other or how they needed each other. Both women and men loved people that no one else on earth would even want to know. And no matter how rotten those people might seem to be to others, to their lovers they were more valuable than heaven itself.

  Humans are strange creatures. We can love murderers and stone saints, all in the same day.

  I'm probably no exception.

  I stopped in front of the field of dancing statues in West Tisbury and called John Skye's house, using the code I'd agreed upon with Tom Rimini. When he answered, I told him where I was and that I was coming by to see him. He was protesting when I hung up.

  I drove slowly toward Edgartown to give him and his cohorts time to figure out where to hide and how to handle me. I could already feel the crosshairs on my neck.

  When I drove in, I found Rimini's car and the Ford Explorer in front of the house, right where I'd seen them from the barn. A glance revealed that the loft door was still ajar; then, as I got out of the Toyota, Rimini and Grace Shepard stepped out onto the front porch. The woman's face was a mask, but Rimini was trying a smile. I felt like a target on a missile range.

  The woman spoke first. “How do you do, Mr. Jackson? What brings you here?”

  “I want to talk to Tom,” I said. “In private.”

  “We have no secrets,” she said with a smile I wouldn't have believed in a thousand years.

  “Afterward, he can tell you any part of it he likes,” I said. I hooked a finger at him. “Let's talk.”

  He gave her a fast look, then flicked his eyes at the barn, then brought them back to me.

  “We're together,” he said, brushing those nervous hands of his together. “Anything you say to me, you can say to her.”

  “Maybe you're right,” I said, letting my irritation show. “Maybe she shouldn't trust you. But what I have to say, I'll only say to you. After that, you can do what you want with it.”

  The hands rubbed together. He took a breath. He gave her a furtive glance. She stared at me with animal eyes. Nobody said anything.

  “All right,” I said, “fuck you.” I turned back to the truck.

  He heard the anger in my voice. “Wait,” he said. “Okay, let's talk.”

  I walked to the far side of the yard and he followed me. The woman stood on the porch and watched us.

  “What is it, J.W.?”

  My voice was flat, but he paled as he heard it. I said, “This is what it is, Tom. Sonny Whelen knows about the rifle in the barn and the shotgun in the house. He knows about Graham and Pete McBride and Bruno being here, and he knows about Grace and you and the ambush you've set up, so he won't be coming to see you here.”

  His voice was tremulous. “What are you talking about? What are you saying?” Then, almost in a whisper. “How could he know?”

  It gave me pleasure, I must admit. I put my head close to his. “Because I told him, Tom.”

  He looked at me with horror but, curiously, not with doubt. “How? How could you . . . ?”

  I ignored his questions. “The important thing is that there'll be no ambuscade here today. Sonny is going home. Later he'll decide what's going to happen to who and when it'll happen. Your ass and your pals' asses are in the frying pan, Tom. Your game is over.”

  Fear made his eyes bright. “Jesus!”

  “For once you're going to do what you said you're going to do,” I said. “You're going to leave the island tomorrow, and you're going to take your gang of assassins with you. I'll be by in the morning and if you're not gone, I'll bring in the cops. I'll have all of you in the Dukes County jail on charges of conspiracy to commit murder. And I may even be able to make it stick.”

  “Jesus,” he said again. He looked faint. It turned my stomach, but I made myself go on:

  “If you really have enough dirt to nail Sonny, you may be able to make a deal with the cops and get into the witness protection program. If you do or if you don't, I advise you to get out of this territory and try to make a life someplace where Sonny can't find you. I think that your wife and boys will probably join you when they can. Carla loves you, for reasons that escape me. She can sell the house, and the two of you can probably get jobs out West someplace where they need schoolteachers. Sonny isn't so crazy that he'll waste a lot of money tracking down a little shit like you. You aren't worth it.” I looked at Grace Shepard, who was watching us. “On the other hand, if you hang around Boston, I wouldn't give two cents for your chances. Sonny didn't get where he is by putting up with local scum. Do what you want.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  I knew why. “Because your wife loves you and she deserves more than she's gotten from you so far. You're a lying, two-timing, would-be murderer, but you haven't actually done much that will put you in jail. Gambling debts aren't illegal in this state, and as far as I know you haven't killed anybody yet, although this bungled try might have changed that. If you shake Grace and go someplace far from Boston and straighten your life out, there's a chance you can give Carla and your boys a decent life. On the other hand, you're such a fuckup that you'll probably let Sonny blow you away. And that wouldn't be such a loss that Carla and the boys couldn't get over it. It's your call.”

  I left him and walked to the Toyota, got in, and drove away. In my rearview mirror I watched him look after me, then start back toward the house. I thought I saw a flicker of movement behind the loft door, but that might have been my imagination.

  I was home, stirring the pot of chowder, when Quinn phoned from Vineyard Haven.

  “Just got in. Send Zee to get me. We need to be alone.”

  I conveyed the message and Zee laughed. “I'll go pick him up. Poor man; he needs a woman of his own.”

  “He's got plenty of women,” I said, �
��but none of them belong just to him. I think he likes it that way.”

  “He just hasn't met the right one, yet.”

  “He's met you.”

  “But I'm taken. See you in a bit.”

  She went off in her little Jeep.

  “Pa?”

  “What is it, Josh?”

  “Have you ever been in Greece?”

  “No, but someday I'd like to go there.”

  “I want to make a Parthenon. Ma showed me a picture of it. She said it's in Greece, then we found Greece on the globe.”

  Some children want to color pictures of Mickey Mouse. Mine wanted to build a Parthenon.

  “Will you need any help, Josh?”

  “Yeah, Pa. Will you help me?”

  “Me, too,” said Diana. “I want to help, too.”

  “You're too little,” said Joshua, stepping closer and putting a possessive arm around a paternal leg.

  “We're going to need all the help we can get,” I said. “It's not easy to build a Parthenon.” I stirred my chowder and tasted it. Just a wee bit more salt. I added it, stirred, and tasted again. Better. Maybe some Bean Supreme to give it that little something more. I eyeballed the proper dosage, stirred, and tasted again. Yes. I put the pot on a back burner and turned the heat very low.

  “Let's look at the picture, Josh.”

  We went into the living room and opened the book on the coffee table. The loveliest of ruins lay before our eyes.

  “The roof blew up,” said Josh. “They had a war and some guys had gunpowder stored in it and it blew up.”

  “It's made out of rock,” I said. “Maybe we could make one out of wood.”

  “We've got wood, Pa.”

  True. I had a pile of wood scraps left over from when I'd built the kids' bedrooms a while back. I'd been using it for fireplace kindling, but there was enough to build a Parthenon, too, as long as it wasn't too big.

  By the time Zee and Quinn arrived, our Parthenon plans had shrunk down to model size and our building was going to be made of wood scraps painted white. Our acropolis would be the mound of dirt left over when I dug the pond for the goldfish. The pond would be our Aegean Sea, and our Parthenon would overlook it from on high.

  “This is how small jobs turn into big ones,” said Quinn. “You start out building a Parthenon and you end up having to build an Aegean Sea and an acropolis before you can even begin your temple.”

  “We'll get it done,” I said. “Athens wasn't built in a day. In fact, you can help. Tomorrow, instead of going fishing, you can have a shovel and help dig the pond.”

  “Hoo ha!” said Quinn. “That'll be the day! Point me at your vodka, Zeolinda, my sweet. I'm in a state of shock and I need a drink to quiet my nerves. You'll join me, of course, while these three slave over their blueprints.”

  “But of course,” said Zee. “Follow me.”

  “Anywhere.”

  They went into the kitchen.

  “We're going to have goldfish?” asked Diana.

  “Yes.”

  She thought a moment. Then, “Can we have a dog, too?”

  But I was ready. “No. No dogs. Just goldfish.”

  Quinn and Zee came out of the kitchen carrying trays of drinks, crackers, cheese, and smoked bluefish pâté.

  “We have enough for three,” said Zee.

  “Against my advice,” said Quinn.

  “It's big-people time on the balcony,” I said to Josh and Diana.

  “Okay, Pa. Can we start the Parthenon tomorrow?”

  “I hope so.”

  I went up and they went out into the yard so they could keep an eye on their elders.

  I sat down and took a sip of icy Luksusowa. Delish! I tried some crackers loaded with cheese and pâté. Double delish!

  “Okay,” said Quinn. “Now tell me about this Pulitzer Prize–winning story I'm down here to write.”

  “There may not be any story,” I said.

  “What!?”

  “You're the newsman,” I said. “Listen to my tale, then decide for yourself.”

  I told him about my week, and about this day in particular. When I was done, we all sat there and looked out over Nantucket Sound, where the evening boats were coming in to harbor. It was a peaceful scene, with slanting western light casting our shadows over the gardens below, and a soft wind whispering through the trees. In the yard, Joshua and Diana played with the cats. There wasn't a murderer in sight.

  “I can make a short but good nonstory out of it,” said Quinn. “Mysterious gangster gatherings on Beautiful Martha's Vineyard, and like that. People will wonder what it was all about, and I'll drop a few hints without really saying anything.” He turned to Zee. “On the other hand, a personal interview with you could do wonders for my career. Better yet, I can write it so nobody else will feel they have to talk with you themselves. I can send the wolves away to other hunting grounds and get your story out at the same time. What do you say?”

  “I've been thinking about that possibility,” said Zee. “I wish there wasn't any story, but since there is, you can have it.”

  “There,” I said to Quinn. “Now aren't you glad you came down?”

  “Damned right. While you're digging your pond, Zee can take me fishing, and while we're hauling them in on Wasque she can tell me her tale. And I'll use my expense account to buy the champagne we'll share on the beach.”

  I joined the laugh, but even as I did, some part of me was listening for sirens headed toward John Skye's farm and wondering if nearer neighbors had heard the sound of gunfire there. Gangsters have changed their plans before, after all. The vision in my brain was not a pretty one.

  — 28 —

  Zee wasn't working the next day, so after breakfast, while she stayed with the cubs, I drove to John Skye's farm with Quinn beside me and my old .38 under the seat, a cold comfort at best.

  “You're not going to leave me here,” Quinn had said. “If you don't take me with you, I'll call a taxi.”

  So we went together and drove into John's yard with me not knowing what I'd find.

  We found an empty yard, an empty barn, and an empty house in need of cleaning. Grace had never struck me as the housekeeper type, and Tom Rimini, Graham, and the others who'd been there clearly were not. Everything belonging to them was gone, but there was litter scattered in every room: overflowing ashtrays, pizza cartons, empty beer cans, crumpled newspapers, and other clutter. The lights were all on, and every bed was unmade, with sheets and blankets awry. Dirty glasses, plates, and silverware were everywhere except in the dishwasher. Someone had even started to read a book in John's library and had left it on the side table beside his favorite chair. I put the book back on its shelf and kicked at a wrinkled rug.

  “Look on the bright side,” said Quinn. “There's no blood anywhere and not a body in sight. You can have this place shipshape in half a day.”

  “While you and Zee are off fishing, of course.”

  “Of course. I'm a reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper. I don't clean houses.”

  We walked around the corrals and through the sheds and then through the barn again. The loft door was shut tight and the pad that had been on the floor was gone. There was no evidence of the rifleman who had lain in wait there yesterday.

  “I have to clean this place up,” I said when we got back to the house. “You take the truck. There's a fifty-fifty chance that these characters are in the standby line in Vineyard Haven, trying to get off. There's even a chance that Sonny and his crew are there, too, although I'm willing to bet that he was smart enough to get reservations off island either late last night or early this morning. You might try to get a photo or even an interview or two.” His newsman's eyes brightened and I gave him a description of the four cars involved. I tossed him the keys and he headed for the Land Cruiser.

  I went inside and phoned Zee and told her what I'd found and what I'd be doing for a few hours.

  “So it's over,” she said.

  “This part of
it, at least.”

  “I'll pick you up at noon.”

  I loaded up the dishwasher and the washing machine and got to work with a scrub brush, sponge, mop, and, finally, a vacuum cleaner. By the time Zee came by, the clotheslines were hung with sheets, pillow-cases, and other once-soiled linens, the last of the dishes and silverware were back where they belonged, and there was no sign that the house had recently housed a pack of assassins.

  As we drove home, the kids were in the rear compartment of Zee's little Jeep, goofing around and laughing about something. It was a good time to talk with their mother and not really be heard.

  “I don't think I'll give John and Mattie all the details of Rimini's stay here,” I said. “It might make them nervous, and I don't want that. People come to Martha's Vineyard to relax, not to fret about killers in their houses.”

  “The killers are gone,” said Zee.

  “But my guilty feelings aren't. I hate it when I do stupid things, and one of my stupidest was misreading Tom Rimini. I thought I was doing a favor for a pretty normal guy with a gambling habit, but what I was really doing was helping a would-be gangster and his killer girlfriend set up an assassination attempt.”

  “How could you know? I think the assassination idea only came to him after you put him in John's house. I think he and that woman saw their chance to set a trap and decided to take it, knowing that Whelen was rash enough to walk into it. Everything just happened to fall into place. You couldn't have known because they didn't know, either, until after you'd hidden him there.”

  “I agree, but I still hate having been dumb enough to have set it up.”

  She glanced at me with those dark, dark eyes. “I don't think it was stupidity,” she said. “I think it was love.”

  I felt a tighter breathing, and zero at the bone. “It's you I love,” I said, but my voice sounded like stone.

  She cocked her head to one side. “I know. But you still love her, too. Maybe not the way you love me, but it's still love. I don't think I feel quite the same way about Paul, but I'm still concerned about him. I want good things to happen to him. I know you want them to happen to Carla.”