Vineyard Enigma

by Philip R. Craig

  Hopewell’s face took on the expression of an unhappy man. “I don’t know. I can’t run the business myself because I know nothing about our product. I suppose Connie will either find a new partner who does or will sell the firm. But before she does that, I have to make sure the books are in shape. And as Mr. Jackson there may have told you, the police have asked me to search back for any sale or transaction that might have incited someone to shoot poor Matthew. That’s what this chaos is all about.” He gestured at the piles of paper and ledgers.

  “And have you found anything?”

  Hopewell was suddenly wary. “As I told Mr. Jackson before, I’m afraid that’s between me and the police.”

  Mahsimba again smiled the smile. “Of course. I can only encourage you to work closely with the authorities. Am I correct in assuming that all of Mr. Duarte’s business transactions are recorded in these files?”

  But Hopewell had become a more careful witness. “Of course. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Mahsimba rose from his chair. “You’ve been most generous with your time. One last question: Are you aware of rumors about traffic in unauthorized international art here on the island?”

  Hopewell, too, was on his feet. “I pay little attention to rumors, sir. I only know that this business was engaged in no such traffic.”

  “I understand,” said Mahsimba, “that Matthew Duarte constructed a room here in this barn where he kept art he’d not yet sold. Would it be possible for me to look at that room?”

  Hopewell came around the desk and opened the office door. “No, sir, it would not. I must make an inventory of the contents before anyone but the police will be allowed to enter. I wish you good day.”

  “And good day to you. My thanks for your time and assistance.” Mahsimba walked past Hopewell with me in his wake. The door closed firmly behind us and I heard the click of a lock. Hopewell was tired of visitors.

  As we drove back to Edgartown, Mahsimba was thoughtful. I was thinking about what I’d seen while listening with half an ear to what he and Hopewell had said.

  “It is interesting, is it not,” said Mahsimba, “that an art dealer would shun travel to the places where his goods might be found?”

  “Maybe Hopewell is right about computers and publications. Maybe you can learn all you need to know without leaving home.”

  “Possibly. I would think, though, that before spending a great deal of money to buy an art object, one would want to examine it carefully, in person.”

  “There are probably experts in every country who will work as agents.”

  “Yes, that seems probable. Still, if I were paying a huge sum for an object, or if I heard about some collection of objects that were of interest to me, I think I’d want to see the goods myself before bidding. Matthew Duarte was an art expert. It’s a curiosity to me that he never went abroad. He must have trusted his agents completely.”

  I stirred the pot: “And there’s the matter of illegal artworks coming into the States. Even if legally traded art can be bought and sold via computers, is the same true of illegal art? You might be able to get your European expert on medieval art to take a look at the latest silver chalice for you and e-mail you a picture of it via satellite, but can you do the same thing with, say, a stolen statue from an Indonesian temple? Do art thieves use computers to show their wares to prospective buyers? Are there experts for hire who will authenticate the value of stolen art objects?”

  Mahsimba stared ahead. “Modern technologies are as available to criminals as to anyone else, and experts can be bribed.”

  Where there is a lot of money lying around, people who wouldn’t think of robbing you personally will be glad to pick up the wealth. I remembered a news story about an armored car that somehow managed to spill several bags of money as it traveled through a poor neighborhood. The money in the street simply disappeared, except for a fifty-cent piece that was turned in by a young boy. The authorities couldn’t understand why other people didn’t turn in the money they had found. They were the only ones who were perplexed.

  “I’ve read that policing the exchange of electronic information is getting more complicated every day,” I said. “As fast as the computer cops come up with a way to keep things honest, the crooks come up with new ways to beat the system.”

  “John Skye has a computer in his office,” said Mahsimba. “If he will allow me to do so, I’ll spend some time with it and see if I can discover anything useful.”

  “You’re on your own,” I said. “I know absolutely nothing about computers.”

  He smiled. “When your children are a bit older, they will no doubt be able to teach you.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Does Samuel Hopewell strike you as an honest man?”

  I thought for a moment. “Yes. But Ananias might well have fooled me.”

  He nodded. “Yes, and not only you. Still, Hopewell struck me, too, as a man whose tongue was not forked.”

  I left Mahsimba at the Skyes’ farm and drove home alone. I was full of thoughts and anxious for night to fall. As I turned into my driveway, one of my front wheels spun a rock up into my windshield. It smacked against the glass and left a small hole just under my rearview mirror.

  Blast and drat. I drove down to the house, parked, and looked at the hole again. This time it didn’t look like something done by a rock. It looked like a bullet hole. I felt a sudden chill and looked up the driveway toward the road. No shooter was coming for a second try.

  I went inside the house and got my old police .38 revolver, then went through the trees up to the end of my drive, moving carefully, as I’d been taught to move long ago when the army was trying to make a warrior of me.

  The closer I got to the road, the slower I moved. I saw no one. I went to the place where the shot must have come from. Nothing. Whoever had been there was gone.

  I walked back to the truck and examined the inside. There, buried in the cracked backrest of the front seat I found the slug. It looked like a .38 or a 9mm. A pistoleer had been at work. Had he been a rifleman, I’d probably be dead.

  I was shaking. I went inside and put my revolver away and gradually got my nerves under control.

  Just before the children got home from school, the phone rang and I jumped to my feet as though I’d heard another gun go off. I took a deep breath and picked up the receiver. The caller was Joe Begay.

  “I’ve been digging around, and I’ve come up with some information that might interest you. It’s about two guys named Mahsimba and Brownington.”

  20

  “First some background,” said Begay. “There’s a UNESCO convention that makes it illegal to sell anything considered a cultural treasure.”

  I made myself listen. “I heard about it.”

  “Then you also probably heard that a lot of countries don’t pay much attention to it, or to other international laws prohibiting such trade. The United States has laws of its own that supposedly have stopped such trade here, but of course they haven’t.”

  “You’re becoming a cynical old man, Sarge.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as skeptically middle-aged. Do you want me to go on, or do you just want to be snotty to your elders?”

  “I always treat the aged and infirm with respect. What about Mahsimba?”

  “There’s a guy named Abraham Mahsimba who sometimes works with the UN, trying to enforce the UNESCO convention. It’s a little unclear whether he really works for Interpol. He did once, but if he still does, he’s on a leave of absence of some kind and is working by himself. Sometimes these lines get fuzzy.”

  Begay worked within just such fuzzy lines, I suspected. “Go on,” I said.

  “My sources say he’s interested in a onetime colleague of his named David Brownington, who may be working for the other side. Brownington is a Zimbabwean of British descent. His parents were farmers back when Zimbabwe was Southern Rhodesia. He and Mahsimba didn’t know each other back home, but they met at Oxford and
hit it off. They both went to work for Interpol in cooperation with the UN efforts to stop the international trade in art objects.

  “Brownington was good at his work, but apparently a time came when there was more money to be made in the business he was hired to stop than in trying to stop it, and he went over.”

  It was not an unfamiliar tale. Cops are constantly exposed to the possibility of graft and corruption, since their work puts them in regular contact with criminals, many of whom have more money than the cops do, and many of whom are willing to share envelopes of cash with policemen who will shut their eyes under certain circumstances. Most bribed cops have a limit to what they’ll ignore, but some use the gun and the shield to commit or abet major-league crimes. A rogue cop can be very dangerous, indeed, and all too often is protected by the code of silence adhered to by even honest policemen and police unions.

  Begay went on. “Brownington played both sides for a while, according to my people. He helped break up some sales rings, but took money to ignore others. He needed the money to put his sister’s kids through some pricey public schools in England, if that motive strikes you as important.”

  “Crooks have families just like everybody else,” I said.

  “Yeah. Well, to bring this business up-to-date, Mahsimba began to think his friend Brownington might not be playing with a straight deck and told him so, so Brownington could resign before he got fired or arrested. Brownington resigned.”

  “And went to work for the other guys.”

  “Nothing quite as overt as that. He created a company called Brownington Limited and became a consultant.”

  A consultant. It had once been my idea of the perfect job. People pay you for advice whether they take it or not and whether it’s any good or not. “To whom?” I asked.

  “To anyone who wanted to hire him. He had a lot to sell: thorough knowledge of the UN’s operations against the trade in artifacts and of Interpol’s operations, too, and thorough knowledge of how the artifact trade worked best or worst. And, to boot, he was also well trained in paramilitary operations.”

  “Just the kind of guy to give wise advice or assistance to exporters of purloined cultural artifacts.”

  “And to honest dealers who might want to know the best way to acquire or ship legitimate goods to legitimate buyers. In a lot of countries, what Americans call graft is considered a normal cost of doing business. Before transactions can take place, money has to change hands. Brownington knew who to pay and how much, and thereby could get things done fast, efficiently, and legally.”

  “A handy guy to know. Why is Mahsimba after him?”

  “You’ll have to ask Mr. Mahsimba.”

  I would do that. “What about the other names I gave you? Were you able to get lines on any of them?”

  “You can find out about Mauch in Who’s Who. He travels all over the world giving lectures and is considered the final word with regard to Central and South American antiquities in particular. I couldn’t find anything about Jenkins aside from the fact that he’s a buyer with good taste and a relatively limited wallet.”

  “What about the Duartes? They seem to be in the middle of whatever’s going on here.”

  “I don’t have much. Duarte père was a dealer for years out on the West Coast. He was a Vineyard boy who left young and made good. His son preferred this coast and lived here while he worked with his father. They both had good eyes for art and did well. The buzz is that they were like most people: honest for the most part, but willing to stretch a point here and there. Maybe more willing than most. Business being business, you understand.”

  I did. I had done some stretching myself upon occasion. “I owe you a six-pack,” I said.

  “Make it Ipswich Ale. Say, is something the matter with you? You don’t sound quite normal.”

  “I’m okay. You’ll get your beer of choice. One last thing. Did you ever meet any of these people in your travels?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I thought that if you had, you might have some private impressions.”

  “Sorry. No private impressions. I do have one suggestion, though. Keeping in mind that the possession or promise of big money can lead people to do things they might not otherwise do, I’d be careful if I were you.”

  Yes. I’d been lucky and now I’d be careful. “Mahsimba gave me the same advice,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Life doesn’t stop or step aside just because we have narrow escapes. My family had to eat, for instance, so I thawed out the bluefish fillets and began putting supper together while I thought about the gunshot and the job I’d taken on. My moving hands actually began to soothe me, and allowed me to come back closer to an even keel.

  I didn’t know who the shooter was, but I knew I was dealing with at least one or two liars, and probably more, and that made things more complicated than I’d have preferred them to be. But on the other hand, I expected people to lie when they thought it was in their best interests to do so, so I wasn’t offended.

  By the time the kids got home from school, I was feeling more angry than frightened, and I took that to be a good thing. I fed the tots snacks and spent some time with them in the tree house, where, by hunching down and pulling my knees up under my chin, I could sit in their main living area, between the two spreading branches that held their respective private rooms.

  I’d always admired Tarzan’s tree house in the old Johnny Weissmuller movies, and was pleased to have one for my children. It lacked Jane and Cheeta, of course, but it had a ladder leading up from the ground and a rope you could use to swing back down, so it wasn’t bad.

  I was always worried about one of the kids falling out and getting seriously hurt, but I kept that feeling to myself just as my father had done when my sister and I had had our tree house when we were little. Biting back fear is one price of parenthood.

  About the time Zee was due home, I swung down to the ground and got back to work in the kitchen. But instead of the sound of her Jeep coming down the driveway, I got a telephone call.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m over at Mattie’s house having a cup of tea. I’ll be home in an hour or so.”

  “Supper will be waiting,” I said. “See you then. Best to Mattie and all.”

  “I’ll convey your solicitations.”

  The phone clicked and I looked at it for a moment before hanging up. I remembered what Mattie had said to me earlier in the day and thought she was probably right. I felt curiously devoid of emotions about Zee and Mahsimba and wondered if I was denying something I should be letting come up out of my subconscious so I could deal with it. In any case, I didn’t plan to tell Zee about the gunshot. She already had enough on her plate.

  I set the table and checked to make sure that Diana and Joshua were still alive. They were.

  Oliver Underfoot and Velcro came in through their cat door, and Oliver wound himself around my legs before joining Velcro at the cat dish.

  A half hour before supper, I called the children inside and had them wash up before eating.

  “Pa?”

  “What?”

  “Can we have a—”

  “No.”

  Something in my voice kept Joshua from finishing his sentence. He turned away.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting you,” I said. “Can you have a what?”

  “A dog.”

  “No. No dogs.” My refusal sounded no different from other refusals I’d tendered in the past, but I realized that I’d almost said yes, because of nerves or out of guilt for being sharp with my son. I’d have to be careful or I’d have a dog underfoot in spite of myself. Guilt was no doubt responsible for many a household pet.

  Zee’s Jeep came down the driveway right on schedule, and I was setting the food on the table as she came through the door. Her face was aglow from within.

  “Sorry to be late,” she said. She’d loosed her hair from the bun she wore at work, and her long tresses fell over her shoulders, shining darkly as a night sky.

 
“Your timing is perfect,” I said. “Red wine or white? We’re having stuffed bluefish.”

  “White, then.” She took her seat and smiled at her children. “What have you two been up to? How was school?”

  The three of them ate as she listened to the reports of their day that I’d heard earlier.

  “How’s Mattie?” I asked after a while.

  Zee smiled a smile that looked almost unstrained. “Fine. She and John are still busy getting straightened away for the summer, and the twins are busy with their horses.”

  No mention of Mahsimba.

  “Is John still working on Gawain?”

  “I believe he’s still at it,” said Zee.

  “His computer must be a big help to him.”

  She touched her napkin to her lips. “I imagine it is. They say you can find any information you want on the Internet.”

  “I’m going out for a while after supper,” I said. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

  “Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to try for some blues at Metcalf ’s Hole. I thought you might want to be with the kids for a couple of hours.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence. Then Diana said, “You can help me read, Ma. I’d like that!”

  “Me, too, Ma,” exclaimed her son, not to be out-done.

  Zee stared at me, then smiled at her children. “I’ll help both of you. Now, finish your plates so you can have dessert. I think there’s ice cream in the freezer.”

  After the dishes were washed and stacked to dry, I put my rod on the roof rack of the Land Cruiser. The summer night was falling slowly. Zee stood in the lighted doorway. I blew her a kiss and drove away. But I didn’t go to South Beach; I went to West Tisbury, to Matthew Duarte’s place. I wasn’t going to let being shot at change my plans, but my eyes were looking in every direction as I drove.

  21

  The slanting summer light lasted late into the evening and made my job difficult, since it was more likely that people might see sneaky me, but I was undeterred.