She sipped more water and took the glass in her hands. “Much better. Please talk with Mr. Harper. I’ll be fine.”
“You sit there, then,” said Mauch. “I’ll take the call in the bedroom. Stay with her if you will, Jackson. I’ll be right back.”
He strode from the room. I looked down at Rose and thought that she wasn’t as all right as she’d said. Her face was snow-white and the water glass was trembling in her hand.
“I’m sorry I shocked you,” I said. “I take it that you knew Matthew Duarte quite well.”
“I worked for Matt when I wasn’t working here.” She looked at me with stunned eyes. “He was murdered?”
“It looks that way.”
“Shot?”
“Yes. In his own living room.”
I caught her as she slumped forward and carried her to the couch. The glass had fallen from her hand.
9
At home I thought about things while I set the supper table and got the house straightened for the evening’s guests. Then I called Al Butters’s number and had a stroke of luck, because Barbara answered. She’d been out of the room when Al had declined to give me any names, and there was a chance he hadn’t told her about his refusal.
After we’d exchanged hellos, I said, “I’ve just finished having a talk with Charles Mauch up in Vineyard Haven. While I was there I told him about Matthew Duarte’s death. Mauch’s assistant, Rose Abrams, was there. She fainted when she heard the news. Do you know her?”
“That bitch!” said Barbara in a voice like a snake’s hiss.
I immediately thought I knew the answer to my next question, but I asked it anyway: “Why would Rose Abrams have had such a strong reaction?”
“Because she’s been breaking up Connie’s marriage! During the past year that witch Rose Abrams has been sleeping with Matthew Duarte more than Connie has.”
“I heard he liked the ladies. What was his appeal? What was hers?”
“You know the cliché: Men can’t resist beauty; women can’t resist money. She’s young and pretty, and he was rich. She got into his bed and wanted into his bank account. Tough luck for her that he got himself killed before the divorce went through, the slut. Men!”
“She didn’t seem quite that tough when she heard he was dead.”
Barbara snorted. “She fainted at the loss of his bank account.”
I had to laugh. “You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch. Connie is your friend, I take it. You’ve been on her side.”
“She’s my friend, and now she doesn’t have to worry about Matt and his money going to that trollop.”
I said the obvious. “The cops might think that’s a motive for murder.”
“They’d be wrong. Connie was on Nantucket when it happened and she’s not the type who’d know where to find a killer for hire. Besides, knowing her, she’d rather have Matt alive, even if he took his money with him when he left her. She’s too sweet for her own good.”
“Is there a lot of money involved?”
“He had his share, I guess. There’s a flood of money on the island right now, as I’m sure you know, and the people who have it aren’t afraid to spend it on art, to say nothing of houses or yachts or whatever else their little hearts desire. I know that Matt had a special room in his barn just for storing merchandise until he sold it. It’s air-conditioned or temperature-controlled, or whatever they do in rooms like that. He worked with his father, you know, and Daniel Duarte had a worldwide reputation.”
“So I’m told. There’s a possibility that Matthew knew about those Zimbabwe eagles I mentioned when I was at your place this morning. Since he’s dead, I can’t talk with him about them. Can you help me out? Do you know anyone else I can talk to? Anyone with an interest in African art?”
She was silent for a moment, then said, “There are a couple of folks who have collections that make ours look tiny. Georgie Hall is one of them. Do you know Georgie and Brent?”
“No, I don’t.”
“She’s the collector, but Brent pays the freight. He can afford it. Another person is Gerald Jenkins. His collection is smaller than Georgie’s but he has a better eye than she does. Rumor has it that Georgie envies his taste and tries to compensate by buying more expensive things than Gerry can afford. Am I being catty?”
“I don’t mind. I’m a cat man.”
“All right, then, I’ll give you another rumor: Georgie sometimes gets a line on something Gerry wants and buys it first for more money than Gerry can offer.”
“How does she manage that?”
“The art business is no different than any other business. Dealers are interested in making money. They aren’t above arranging bidding wars among clients. Matt did a bit of that himself, I’d say.”
“They must have to walk a thin line, for fear of offending good customers.”
She laughed. “Maybe they do when things are tight, but there’s so much money around these days that they don’t have to worry about losing a customer or two.”
“Not even a Gerald Jenkins?”
“Not even Gerry.”
“Where can I find Mr. Jenkins and Mrs. Hall?”
“Try the telephone book. If you can’t find them there, come down here and I’ll draw you a map.”
I rang off and opened my telephone book. Sure enough, there they were, listed just like ordinary folks. Was this a wonderful country, or what?
Gerald Jenkins lived off Middle Road, and Brent Hall lived on Tea Lane. They were almost neighbors and both also lived not far from the house and barn once owned by the late Matthew Duarte. I wondered if there was any significance to that, but set the question aside because a lot of people lived in Chilmark, and understandably so, since it’s the loveliest township on the island. If I didn’t live where I live, and if I had a dozen buckets of large-denomination bills to spend on a house, and if it weren’t so far from the nearest liquor store, I’d live in Chilmark myself.
A glance at my watch suggested that I didn’t have time to make a trip up-island and back before the kids got home and supper guests arrived, so I contented myself with a Sam Adams while I double-checked my paella makings and table setting. I hadn’t finished the beer when I heard a car coming down our long, sandy driveway. I went to the front porch in time to see Zee’s little Jeep come into the yard.
Zee parked and got out. She was carrying a paper bag sporting a name I remembered seeing on a window in Vineyard Haven.
“You’re early,” I said.
She gave me a fast kiss. “I want to take a shower and change before the kids get home.” She smiled and went into the house.
She was in our bedroom, humming to herself while she brushed her hair, when the kids came running down the road from where the bus had dropped them off. One sign of youth is the unnecessary expenditure of energy. The older I get, the more I’m inclined to the “never stand if you can sit, never sit if you can lie down” school of exercise.
“Hi, Pa.”
“Hi, Josh and Diana. How was school?”
“It was okay.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing much.” Joshua glanced at the Jeep. “Is Ma home already?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Oh, good!” Diana ran into the house.
“She’s early,” said Joshua.
“She wanted to take a shower. We’re having company for supper. The Skyes and their guest, Mahsimba.”
“What are we going to eat?”
“Paella.”
He looked pleased. “I love paella. So does Diana.”
Diana the huntress was always on the trail of food. She would eat anything. “You look like you could stand a shower, too,” I said.
“I’ll use the outdoor one,” he said, and disappeared.
Clearly a lad with healthy instincts. An outdoor shower is infinitely superior to an indoor one; you never have to worry about cleaning it afterward, you can see the sky, and it never gets stuffy. We used ours for eight or nine months of th
e year, abandoning it only in midwinter, when the pipes might freeze. Show me a person who doesn’t like an outdoor shower, and I’ll show you someone who probably likes small dogs—someone whose company you should avoid.
About ten minutes before our guests were scheduled to arrive, Zee emerged from the bedroom looking sleek and bright as a tiger in the forests of the night. Her hair fell over her shoulders like dark fire, and her eyes were deep as oceans. I hadn’t seen that dress before.
I eyed her appreciatively, and she gave me an odd, almost nervous smile.
“How about a drink?” I said. “You look terrific, by the way.”
“Thank you. Yes, I’d like a drink.”
I got the Luksosowa and two chilled glasses out of the freezer, swirled dry vermouth in the glasses, and then tossed it out and filled the glasses with the vodka. Two black olives in Zee’s, two green ones stuffed with peppers in mine. Perfect martinis.
She sipped her drink. She had the look of one of those girl-women you sometimes see on college campuses who radiate sexuality but who still aren’t quite grown-up.
“Let’s go up on the balcony,” I said.
“Sure.” She led the way.
There was a northeast wind ruffling the water, and I could clearly see Cape Cod looming across Nantucket Sound. The trees were gently moving. I looked at Zee and she smiled that odd smile again.
I heard a car coming down the driveway. Zee stood and looked in that direction. John Skye’s Jeep came into view.
“There they are,” I said, and went down the stairs. I heard Zee start after me, pause, then continue down again. Joshua and Diana came scampering.
John, Mattie, the twins, and Mahsimba got out of the car. I kissed Mattie, Zee kissed both Mattie and John, and the twins were hugged by our children, who immediately invited them to the tree house. Not everyone got invited to the tree house, and Jill and Jen were aware of the honor being bestowed upon them, so they went, laughing.
I shook hands with John and with Mahsimba. Mahsimba shook hands with Zee. “It’s very kind of you to invite us,” he said to her.
“We’re glad you could come,” she said. Their hands lingered, then parted.
“Let’s get you all some drinks and then we’ll go up onto the balcony,” I said.
Mahsimba was looking at the gardens. “You have a lovely place, Mrs. Jackson.”
She never took her eyes from his face. “Call me Zee. Would you like a tour of the estate?”
He smiled a quick, white-toothed smile. “Very much.”
Zee led him away while I waved the others into the house. At the door I glanced back. She had taken his arm as they walked between the flower beds.
10
At the supper table I caught Mattie looking at Zee, who was seated between Mahsimba and John and listening to Mahsimba. Mattie flicked her eyes at me before looking back at her plate.
Mahsimba had been speaking of his onetime job as a safari guide and describing the difference between hyena and cheetah spoor. “Not,” he concluded, “that you will really need that knowledge here on your beautiful island!”
Zee and John laughed.
“Tell us about the murder, J.W.,” said a twin. “Daddy and Mahsimba won’t tell us anything. You’d think we were little kids instead of college students.”
“Yeah, Pa,” chimed in Joshua. “Tell us about the murder!”
“You are just a kid,” said the twin, “so you shouldn’t listen.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “But you can tell us big people, J.W. Please! We’re going to read about it in the papers anyway, you know, so why not just tell us?”
I looked at John. He shrugged. So I gave a factual description of what we’d seen, leaving out speculation.
“You mean you can’t even be sure it was murder?” asked a twin, disappointed by the starkness of my report.
“He was dead, but the authorities will have to decide if it was murder.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m told he was shot in the head, and I didn’t see any gun lying around.”
“Murder for sure,” said the twin, cheering up.
“Who did it?” asked her sister.
“The police are trying to find out.”
“Whoever it was, the victim let him in, isn’t that right?”
“I didn’t see any sign of a forced entry.”
“It was somebody he knew, then.”
“Maybe.”
“Let’s change the subject,” suggested Mattie. She turned to Mahsimba. “How’s the search for the eagles going?”
He sipped his wine. “Slowly. There are a remarkable number of galleries and studios on your little island, and I have only begun to visit them. I have many more people to talk to.”
“Have you learned anything useful?”
He shrugged. “You don’t always know at the time you get it whether information is useful. It’s dull work, I’m afraid. So far, I’ve learned little that seems important.” He looked at me. “And you, J.W., have you made any progress?”
I told them about my day. Mahsimba listened carefully, and said not a word.
But a twin was not so silent. “The woman fainted, you say! Ah-ha!” She and her sister exchanged wide-eyed, knowing nods.
I wished I could tell them apart, but I couldn’t. “Ah-ha, what?” I asked. “Some women faint all the time.”
“Pooh,” said a twin. “Women hardly ever faint anymore. Ever since they gave up corsets they’ve been fine. No, she fainted because she was shocked, really shocked. And you know what that means?”
“It means he was her lover!” cried her sister. “Yes!”
“Her heart has been broken!”
“Now, girls, don’t be melodramatic,” cautioned their mother.
“And we know another thing, too,” said a twin, raising a finger.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“We know she didn’t do it. She didn’t kill him. If she’d killed him, she wouldn’t have been shocked at the news.” The twins looked at each other and simultaneously exclaimed, “We should be detectives!”
“Defectives are what you are,” said John.
“All right, girls,” said Mattie, “clear the table and let J.W. and Mahsimba talk. And wash the dishes while you’re at it!”
“I’ll take care of the dishes later,” I said. “Right now it’s time for Joshua and Diana to be in bed.”
“Aw, Pa, it’s early.”
“You were up late last night and you have school tomorrow.”
“Aw, Pa.”
But they said their good-nights and went to their rooms while the twins cleared.
“We’ll be glad to do the dishes, J.W.,” said a twin, and soon there was only coffee and cognac on the table.
“I’ve heard of this man Mauch,” said Mahsimba.
“He is very well known. I wonder if he is a descendant of the German, Carl Mauch, who visited the ruins of Great Zimbabwe in 1871.”
“I didn’t ask him, though maybe I should have.”
“The other people you’ve named, Jenkins and Hall, are not familiar to me. Tomorrow, I’ll ask about them as I continue my visits. Perhaps I’ll learn something I might otherwise have missed.”
“And I’ll talk with them in person, if I can.” I looked at him. “One thing Mauch said that interested me was that Daniel Duarte was killed last December in an auto accident. I don’t remember you mentioning that.”
Mahsimba studied me, then seemed to come to some decision. “I hope I’ve not offended you.” He seemed confident that he hadn’t, and his confidence was justified.
“My feelings aren’t hurt,” I said. “People usually only tell you what they want you to hear.”
He nodded. “Quite so. When first we spoke, I wasn’t sure that Daniel Duarte’s death was relevant to the work you were considering undertaking. That was, of course, before you told me of your Headless Horseman and before we discovered Matthew Duarte’s body.”
“But now thing
s are different.”
“Yes. Now, if I was to speculate on the significance of the death of Daniel Duarte, I would point out that only days after David Brownington saw him, Duarte died in an automobile accident and I would note that one of Brownington’s skills was in arranging such accidents.”
If that was one of Brownington’s skills, and Brownington and Mahsimba shared a past, I wondered if Mahsimba had the same skill.
“Why would he kill Daniel Duarte?” I asked.
“Perhaps to send a message to others who might otherwise be reluctant to talk.”
“To Matthew Duarte, for instance?”
“Exactly.”
“What about Parsons, the mercenary? Did Brownington kill him, too?”
Mahsimba shook his head. “No practical person commits violence unless there is a good reason for it. Once Brownington knew about Matthew Duarte, there was no longer any reason to be concerned about Parsons. Parsons spent the money he got for the birds and is a sick old man who probably doesn’t have long to live, anyway. God will be allowed to take Parsons in his own time.”
“God got some help with both Duartes. And if Brownington is dead, who killed him? And who killed Matthew Duarte? Someone who didn’t want him talking to you?”
Mahsimba sipped his coffee. “People involved in illegal activities have a greater chance of being murdered than people who aren’t.”
“Do you think Matthew revealed the name of the buyer of the eagles before he was shot?”
“If he had done that, there would have been no need to kill him.”
It was my turn to nod. “And if he refused to tell, his interrogators would have been fools to kill him, since he was the only person who knew the name of the buyer. Maybe they killed Brownington, though, to keep him from persuading Matthew to talk.”
Mahsimba’s face revealed nothing of his thoughts.
I went on. “The police will be investigating, and they’re more likely than we are to find out who killed who, and why. Of course, the Horseman may not be Brownington and Duarte may not have been killed because of the eagles. I’d guess that the first person they’ll be talking to is Connie Duarte. And the second one will be Rose Abrams.”
Vineyard Enigma Page 6
