“Cherchez la femme. Yes.”
“Two male chauvinists!” Zee feigned anger then laughed as Mahsimba looked at her first with surprise, then with a smile. She touched his arm. “I’m joking!”
“In any event,” he said, “while I wait for whatever information the police may discover, tomorrow I plan to continue my visits to the island’s galleries.”
“And I’ll try to talk with Gerald Jenkins and Georgie Hall,” I said.
Later, after we said our good-nights, I went into the house, but Zee stood in the yard and watched John’s Jeep disappear up the driveway. When she came inside, her dark eyes seemed full of dreams.
11
I waited until a reasonable hour the next morning, then phoned Gerald Jenkins. When he answered, I said, “My name is Jackson. I got your name from Barbara Butters. I’m working for a man who has an interest in two particular examples of African art. I’m hoping that you can give me some information about them.”
He sounded annoyed. “I’m not in the consulting business, Mr. Jackson.”
“I’m not a buyer or a seller. In fact, I know almost nothing about African art or any other kind. That’s why I’d like to talk with you. I won’t take up much of your time.”
“What are these pieces? Do you have them with you?”
“They’re carvings. I don’t have them with me, but I can show you a photograph.”
“Photos don’t always show much.”
“I’ll be glad to hear anything you have to say when you see them. I think they might interest you. They’re old pieces.”
I listened to some silence, then he said, “All right, you’ve tempted me. Can you be here in an hour?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
I had time to do a bit of work in the yard before heading up-island. While I extracted some weeds from the raised vegetable gardens, I thought about things said and unsaid of late. I felt almost removed from my own body, as though I were watching myself from a short distance away. I knew what I was feeling and thinking, but it was as though I were only an observer of those experiences.
And as I observed myself from outside, it occurred to me that Zee might also be feeling that way because she had killed a man. She knew that she had done the necessary thing, the right thing, but knowing and feeling are not the same. And now, perhaps, Zee was outside of herself, watching her life but not really being a part of it, as though it were a play and she were an actress.
When I remembered to look at my watch, I realized that I had left myself no traveling time to spare. I drove to Chilmark, where, leading off Middle Road, one of the island’s most beautiful lanes, I came to Gerald Jenkins’s driveway.
His name was on his mailbox, and his driveway was a narrow one, winding up toward Prospect Hill until it opened into a small meadow containing a house that, like that of Al and Barbara Butters, once might have been considered large, but was now modest compared with the places being built by the new money that was drowning the island.
There were outbuildings to one side and a looping driveway in front. The house itself had a fine view of Menemsha Pond and points west, north, and south. No Man’s Land and the Elizabeth Islands were visible in the hazy distance.
I parked and knocked on the front door. The man who opened it wore a white summer shirt and slacks. He appeared to be about sixty years old, although it’s hard for me to guess how old people are these days. Some twelve-year-old girls look as old as their mothers, and some of their mothers could be sixteen. I knew I could no longer trust my judgment about age when cops and doctors began to resemble high school students.
“I’m J. W. Jackson,” I said.
“Come in.”
He held the door and I walked into what appeared to be a private museum. African art was displayed everywhere, in the form of stone, wood, metal, textiles. Even I could see that it was very fine.
Jenkins noted my interest. He gestured as we walked: “A Masai shield. Cowhide with a wooden rim. The painted patterns show the owner’s clan. Early nineteenth century.”
“Lion killers, I’ve been told.”
“Yes. They used spears. Protectors of their own cattle herds and raiders of other herds. This is an Ashanti chief ’s helmet. From Ghana. The ornaments are gold. This is a Sande mask from Sierra Leone. This bronze is from Benin. Sixteenth century. A favorite of mine. So is this head, which is even earlier. It’s from Ife. Lost wax technique. Common in West Africa.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Thank you. Here’s my office. Sit down there. Now, what can I do for you?”
The office, too, was adorned with art objects tastefully arranged. “Aren’t you worried about thieves?” I asked.
He cocked his head to one side. “Why do you ask? Are you a thief, Mr. Jackson?”
“Not yet, but if I had enough room in my house to display this stuff, I might consider becoming one.”
He studied me, then smiled. “If you don’t have room for it in your house, you could sell it for a good deal of money. There are people right here on the Vineyard who would pay a pretty penny for what’s here.”
“Are there? I didn’t notice any security system.”
“Oh? Do you know about security systems, Mr. Jackson?”
“Not much. Still, valuable collections of art aren’t usually left in unguarded houses. One man I know of kept his in a special, air-conditioned room under lock and key. You don’t. I’m a little surprised, is all.”
“Do you lock away your favorite things, Mr. Jackson?”
“I have nothing of great value except my wife and children. I don’t lock them away, of course.”
“Some men do, I’m told.”
“Yes. They think their families are their possessions.”
“You disagree.”
I thought of Zee. “I don’t believe in slavery. I love my family and I’ll protect them, but I don’t own them. My fishing gear is probably the most valuable stuff I actually own, and it’s right out there in plain sight.”
He nodded. “I’ve been advised to put my things in a safer place, but I want to see them. I want them around me. I want to be able to touch them. So I keep them here with me, not in some vault. I have strong locks on my doors and bars on my windows and, although you can’t see it, an alarm system linked to our police station. If anyone breaks in, the alarm is supposed to go off, or I can trip it myself if I’m here when the thieves arrive. I’ve never been sure that it works.”
“Your insurance premiums must be dandies.”
“I can’t afford to insure my things. I have more money than some people, but not so much as many others. I have to be careful about how I spend it. I prefer to buy rather than to insure.”
I looked at him with new interest. “I know fishermen with the same problem. They have to sail uninsured boats. They risk everything every time they go out, but they have no choice. You’re very open about your security, such as it is. A lot of people try to keep such information secret.”
“I prefer openness. I want people to know about my locks and alarm. I’m telling you, a perfect stranger, for instance. I also make no secret about the items in my collection. The better known they are, the less likely they are to be successfully resold if stolen. My lawyer has written descriptions and photos of everything I own, so if something ever is pilfered, its image can be immediately made known to all potential buyers. Most of them are honest, though, of course, a few are not.” He paused. “I also have a pistol that I know how to use.”
Another surprise. “And would you use it on a thief?”
“Without hesitation.”
“What caliber?”
“Forty-five.”
I felt a smile on my face. “Forty-five more reasons for me to give up the idea of art theft as a career.” I took the photo of the eagles from my pocket and handed it to him. “Here, these are the objects I’m interested in. What can you tell me about them?”
He studied the fuzzy photo under a desk light. “They appear to
be soapstone eagles such as were found in the ruins of Great Zimbabwe. They resemble the chevron eagle, but my recollection of that bird is that the beak is missing. These two have beaks, and there are crocodiles on the pedestals.” He handed the photo back to me. “I really can’t tell much more than that from this photo. Where was it taken, and when?”
“I’m told it was taken in Rhodesia sometime before it became Zimbabwe. Are the birds real or fakes?”
“It’s impossible to say. I’d have to see them. You told me you were working for a man with an interest in the birds. Does he have them? If they’re available, I’d love to examine them.”
“He’s looking for them. I’m trying to help him.”
“Here on Martha’s Vineyard?” His eyes grew bright.
“It’s possible that they’re here or were at one time. You must know most of the island’s collectors and dealers. Have you heard anyone say anything about such birds?”
He sat back and studied me, then shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing. Tell me why you think the birds might be here.”
“Matthew Duarte’s father’s firm sold them. Matthew may have been the agent for the sale.”
“Matthew Duarte?” He gave a little nod. “Ah.”
It was my turn to cock my head. “Ah?”
He touched his fingers together. “Clearly you should talk with Matthew.”
“I’d need a medium to do that. Matthew Duarte was shot to death the day before yesterday. I imagined that you’d heard.”
He looked surprised but not shocked. “I haven’t been listening to the news. How did it happen?”
“The police are investigating. The gun wasn’t on the scene, so it looks like homicide.”
He became thoughtful. “Matthew Duarte shot, eh? Well, well.”
“You don’t seem too disturbed.”
He looked around the room. “No. No, I’m not disturbed. I mean, it’s probably always a surprise when someone you know is murdered.” He brought his eyes back to mine. “But it’s less of a surprise when it happens to some people rather than to others.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Matthew Duarte was thought by some people to be a dealer in stolen goods, and that thieves fall out with one another, sometimes violently.”
“What makes you think Duarte was a criminal?”
He shrugged. “I have no personal evidence that he was, but that is the gossip.” Then his tone changed. “I do know that the man was short on ethics.”
“How so?”
His voice became bitter. “I located a fine Bakuba sculpture. A portrait statue of a king, probably seventeenth century. I arranged the purchase through Matthew Duarte, but once it was in his hands, Duarte was offered more money than we had agreed to, and he sold it to the higher bidder. We had no formal contract, so there was nothing I could do. I’ve conducted no business with him since, and I’m inclined to believe the rumors about him. I would not wish him dead, but I’ll not mourn him, either.”
“Had Duarte double-crossed anyone else?”
“I suspect that mine was not an isolated case.”
“So he had enemies.”
He shrugged. “If so, he deserved them.”
“Can you suggest anyone else who might be of help to me in finding the eagles?”
“Charles Mauch is the sort of man who might be able to help you. He knows everyone and has long ears.”
“I’ve talked with him and he said he’d heard nothing.”
He frowned, then said, “You might talk with Georgie Hall. She lives not far from here, over on Tea Lane. Unlike me, she has an unlimited amount of money, and I know she and Matthew Duarte had business dealings.”
“If you think of anyone else, will you let me know?”
“Very well. I’d like to see the birds myself.”
“If I find them, I’ll try to arrange a showing.” Then, because I rather liked him, I said, “I think you should expect a call from the police. Unless they find Duarte’s killer quickly, they’ll want to interview his acquaintances.”
He smiled grimly. “Especially those who own pistols and who had reason to dislike him?”
12
Tea Lane supposedly got its name from the pre-Revolutionary activities of Captain Robert Hillman, who avoided paying the taxes on his tea by smuggling it to the Vineyard and hiding it so well that the authorities could never find it. Good for Captain Robert, I say.
I once was reading a novel wherein the protagonist, who was driving down Tea Lane, had a revelation of some sort, threw a U-turn, and drove back the other way. Since Tea Lane is so narrow that such a turn is impossible, I stopped reading the book. Literary snobbery takes many forms.
Since Zee keeps our cell phone in her car, I drove to Menemsha and used a public phone to call Georgie Hall. When she answered, I gave her the same story I’d given Gerald Jenkins.
“You say that Barbara Butters gave you my name? What did she tell you about me?” Georgie’s tone seemed defensive, as though she was doubtful that Barbara Butters would have said anything nice about her.
“She told me that you had a large collection of art and that you might be able to tell me something about the pieces that interest the man I’m working with.”
“And who might that man be?”
It was a question Gerald Jenkins hadn’t asked. “His name is Abraham Mahsimba. Do you know him?”
“Sounds like a foreigner.”
“He’s from Africa. He’s a friend of Stanley Crandel.”
“I don’t know him either.”
“Crandel Supermarkets, Crandel Publications, Crandel this and that. Perhaps your husband knows of him. Stanley phoned me from London and asked me to lend Mahsimba a hand. I’d appreciate any help you can give me.” Since flattery gets you far with most people, I tried a small lie. “I’m told you’re an expert on art.”
She gave a modest little laugh. “Well, I don’t know that I’d go that far, but…I have a luncheon date at one. Can you be here in half an hour?”
“I’m in Menemsha. I can be there in ten minutes.”
She gave me directions.
Mr. and Mrs. Brent Hall lived at the end of a new, paved driveway in a trophy house that looked toward Vineyard Sound and the Elizabeth Islands. Through the light haze I could see the mainland on the far side of Buzzards Bay. The house looked like the best that money could buy, and if I had more sensitivity I might have been embarrassed to park my rusty Land Cruiser in front of the stone steps leading up to the wide porch; but I didn’t.
The woman who answered my knock was soft, middle-aged, and dressed in pastel clothes such as wealthy women buy for lunches and cocktail parties. Her hair was yellow and her handshake was fleeting. I followed her into a huge entrance hall.
The house struck me as looking like a series of photos in House Beautiful or a coffee-table book on elegant summer living. There was no sign that real people lived in it; everything was perfect and untouched; no wrinkles in the rugs, no indication that anything had ever been used. Even the magazines on a side table had been arranged for effect.
I pretended to be awed. “This is really lovely.”
“We like it. It’s very Vineyard, we think.”
She lived on a different Vineyard than I did.
In a niche in the far wall sat a piece of art that I suspected I recognized. “That’s an impressive object,” I said.
“Yes, it is interesting, isn’t it? One of my newest purchases. A portrait sculpture of a Bakuba king. Probably from the sixteen hundreds. Are you interested in African art, Mr. Jackson?”
“I don’t know much about it, but I’m glad to know that you do, since the pieces I’m interested in are African. Personally, I lean more toward Russell and Remington.” I smiled the nervous smile of a peasant in the presence of a queen.
Seeing it, the queen was gracious. “My dear husband, bless his soul, would understand you perfectly. He’s simply in love with the American frontier period but knows noth
ing at all about what artifacts are good and what are bad. I have to do all his buying for him. Let me show you his den. You men are all the same, ha! ha! You’ll love it!”
She led me to what looked like a Victorian gentlemen’s club room. There were animal heads and a small arsenal of weapons on the walls, and animal skins on the floor. The chairs were of ancient leather, and there was a bar on the far side of the room beside a bookcase filled about fifty-fifty with leather-bound tomes and more modern books about the American West.
Georgie Hall made a sweeping gesture with one arm. “Brent just adores this room, but I’ve had to buy everything in it because the dear man has no taste at all!”
“It’s very impressive.”
“Isn’t it? Those weapons, for example, were all once owned by well-known men of the frontier. I know nothing about such things myself, naturally, but I buy only historic firearms with authentic histories.” She pointed with a bejeweled hand. “My husband is particularly fond of that one, because it once belonged to Jesse James and dear Brent is a great Jesse James fan! I got it from poor, dear Matthew Duarte just last January, for Brent’s birthday. He was ever so pleased!”
“I’m sure he was.” I read a gilt-rimmed card that identified the weapon as a forty-one-caliber double-action Colt, model 1889, and informed me that it had indeed once belonged to the famous outlaw.
“And this Winchester rifle was once owned by Buffalo Bill! It cost me a pretty penny, but the look on Brent’s face when I gave it to him made it worth every cent!”
“I can imagine.”
The card describing the rifle as a “One in One Thousand” and authenticating its previous ownership by William F. Cody was rimmed in gold, as were the cards beneath every weapon on the wall. The cards gave Brent Hall’s den something of the feeling of a museum.
“Now, I know you’d love to stay right here in this room,” said Mrs. Hall, giving a little laugh, “but we must get down to business, I’m afraid.” She led me back into the room we’d been in before, where she sat in an overstuffed chair and pointed me to another one. “How can I help you, Mr. Jackson?”
Vineyard Enigma Page 7
