A Vineyard Killing

by Philip R. Craig

  The moped tracks led past the hole and into a patch of greenbrier. I had no intention of tangling with greenbrier thorns, so I circumnavigated the patch. No track led out the other side. I got as close to the greenbrier as I cared to, stood on my tiptoes, and stared into its center. There I thought I could see a piece of camouflaged tarp.

  John was fond of camouflage. He kept his moped in the Greenbrier Garage. Home must be nearby.

  11

  There were two ways to find John’s lair: I could look for it myself, or I could let him show it to me. I decided on the latter. Tonight when John came to the clearing after work, I’d be watching.

  I found my spot to do that fairly quickly, a small, crooked fir not far from the cellar hole with branches that swept the ground, providing a hidden shelter just the right size for me.

  No problem.

  I circled away from John’s path on my way back to the highway, picking up a few scratches as I traveled, but feeling pretty good about my detective work. I fetched the bike path a few hundred yards from my truck and had almost begun to whistle a happy, self-congratulatory tune when I saw the Range Rover.

  It was parked behind my truck and a large man with a necktie was doing something at my rear bumper. Another large, necktied man was looking up and down the road and into the trees, his head on a busy swivel. The lookout was not too good at his job and was peering in other directions when I slipped behind a tree trunk and watched the action from there.

  The men climbed back into the Range Rover and drove toward me. I eased around the tree trunk as they passed by and watched them pull off onto a side road about a quarter of a mile to the south. The driver and passenger were the same two guys I’d seen the day before. I waited for them to reappear, but they didn’t.

  After a bit I walked on up the bike path and cut through the underbrush and trees to my truck. Inside my rear bumper was a small electronic device held in place by duct tape. I didn’t think it was a bomb because a bomb would have been placed up where the driver sat. A bug to allow someone to follow me, then.

  The guys in the Range Rover were apparently waiting for me to leave so they could follow me at a distance without being seen. Maybe they had some sort of modern electronic monitor that showed exactly where I was on a video map. Did such things actually exist, or were they only make-believe gadgets that I had seen in the movies? My ignorance of modern electronics was staggering.

  Maybe I should at least break down and buy a computer. As far as I knew, I was the only person in the Western world who didn’t have one. Should I get one for the kids, or could they use the ones at school? Problems, problems.

  I checked beneath the car and under the hood but found no other devices that hadn’t been there before, then climbed in and drove to Vineyard Haven where I parked in the A&P parking lot. The Range Rover was nowhere in sight, but there were a couple of Tisbury police cruisers parked in front of the impressive new police station across from the grocery store.

  For several years Edgartown had held the championship for the snazziest police station on the Vineyard, but now it had stiff competition from both Vineyard Haven and Chilmark, where the old coast guard station has become the new police station. Time rolls on, in spite of the efforts of many monied islanders to make it stop or go backward.

  Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to me, so I got a roll of duct tape from the back of the truck, cut the tape holding the tracking device, and went over to one of the cruisers. Still, nobody was giving me heed. Where are the cops when you really need them? I taped the gadget to the inside of the cruiser’s rear bumper and went back to my truck. I wondered how long it would take the guys in the Range Rover to realize that they were tailing a police car.

  How would they feel when they found out? How would their boss feel?

  I drove to the hospital and found Zee and another nurse at the desk of the emergency room, doing paperwork. Zee seemed happy to see me and returned the kiss I gave her.

  “What brings you here, hunk?”

  “An emergency. I thought my heart would stop beating if I had to stay away from you a moment longer.”

  “Good grief,” said the other nurse.

  “He’s always like this,” said Zee. “He can’t live without me. Can you, dear?”

  “An eternity in hell would be bliss compared to an hour without you, my sweet.”

  “Ye gods!” said the nurse. “I’ll leave you two alone.” She walked away.

  “How’s your gudgeon?” I asked.

  “Fine. How’s your pintle?”

  “My pintle is okay, I’m glad to tell you.”

  “And I’m happy to hear it. Now, why are you really here?”

  “Two things. I need to be free a little after four. Can you shake loose from here early again today?” I told her about finding John Reilley’s trail.

  She nodded. “I can probably leave early. It’s been a slow day. What’s the other thing?”

  “I’m going to talk with Donald Fox. Paul Fox was in here after he got shot, so I figured you have big brother’s local address and phone number somewhere in your files.”

  She went away and came back with a slip of paper in her hand. “You figured right. Apparently, Saberfox has taken over the whole Martin’s Vineyard Hotel, right here in town. Their office is there, and so are the living quarters for the entire high command: the Fox brothers and Brad Hillborough. Why do you want to see Donald Fox?”

  “I want to know why those guys were tailing me. They were there again today.”

  She picked up on the tense. “Were?”

  “I think the dogs may be chasing a red herring at the moment, but they’ll be back. I’d like to know why. While I’m asking questions, do you know if Paul Fox is still on the island? Donald wanted him to go home to Savannah, but Paul didn’t seem anxious to leave.”

  “And he didn’t. Maria tells me that he and she and his cracked ribs went to the movies night before last. Apparently Donald’s wish is not Paul’s command. Are you sure you want to get more involved in whatever it is that’s going on?”

  “I’m already involved. I may have to get more involved in order to get uninvolved.”

  The Martin’s Vineyard Hotel is a couple of streets in back of Ocean Park, and was built in the time when an ocean view was not held in such high esteem as it is nowadays. It’s a big old Victorian place with wide porches and a lot of gingerbread decoration. It’s well maintained and is painted in four different colors, as are many of the cottages around the campground because, I’ve been told, that was the way the buildings were painted back in the 1800s, when the places were new.

  The name comes from early maps, some of which identify the island as Martin’s Vineyard while others call it Martha’s Vineyard. Bartholomew Gosnold, who named the island in 1602, could have used either name since his mother-in-law, who helped finance his voyage, was named Martha, since he supposedly had a daughter by that name, and since John Martin was the captain of one of Gosnold’s ships.

  In any event, Martha eventually overcame Martin and got the island for herself, leaving Martin with only a Victorian hotel. The hotel was probably glad to have Saberfox’s business during the winter, when there were few other customers about. Maybe Saberfox paid so well that the company would be welcome all summer, too.

  I didn’t know if Donald Fox would be there in midmorning, but I also didn’t know he wouldn’t be, so I went in. A clerk came out from an office behind the desk, and looked more than slightly surprised at having a customer who didn’t work for Saberfox. She instantly knew I didn’t because I wasn’t wearing a suit and tie. She recovered nicely and smiled and asked if she could help me. I told her I wanted to see Donald Fox. She told me I could find the Saberfox office on the second floor and pointed to a graceful staircase across the lobby.

  I crossed the room, taking in the decor as I went. The walls were hung with paintings and photos of square-rigged ships and Victorian scenes. Art nouveau statues and vases stood on tables, and o
rnately carved chairs and couches lined the sides of the room. Colored light filtered through stained-glass windows beside and over the door and brightened the worn but still lovely Oriental carpets on the floor. There was a faint smell of lavender in the air.

  I went up the worn stairs and found myself in another lobby. A woman sat at a large desk upon which was a computer and a small sign that read SABERFOX, INC. Facing the desk were two comfortable chairs. On a table between the chairs were a half dozen magazines. They appeared to be the latest issues. Clearly I wasn’t in a doctor’s office. The woman was wearing a suit and a necktie. What else?

  “I’m Dana Hvide,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  I told her I’d like to speak with Donald Fox.

  Her eyes flowed over my clothing. Clearly I wasn’t the type who normally had access to Donald Fox.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Fox is busy this morning, Mr….?”

  “Jackson.” I gave her my best smile. It was like smiling at a rock.

  “As I said, I’m afraid Mr. Fox is busy this afternoon, Mr. Jackson.” She fingered her keyboard and looked at her computer screen. Whatever happened to appointment books? “Mr. Fox’s assistant, Mr. Jacobs, may be able to help you.”

  “I doubt it. Perhaps you can tell Mr. Fox that J. W. Jackson would like to talk with him. I think he’ll want to see me, and I won’t need much of his time.”

  “As I just told you, Mr. Jackson, Mr. Fox is busy. He can’t be interrupted.”

  “Anybody can be interrupted,” I said. “Work can be interrupted, too, and jobs. Yours, for instance, might be if you don’t tell your boss that I’m here. I think he’ll be annoyed if you don’t do that.”

  Her eyes hardened. “Mr. Fox’s work is very important. He takes it very seriously.” She leaned forward. “And I take mine seriously. Don’t try to threaten me!”

  I admired her. What is more valuable to a businessman than a loyal secretary who will defend you from your enemies?

  “The graveyards are full of indispensable people,” I said. “I’ll wait.”

  I sat down and picked up a magazine. It had to do with country living. I more or less lived in the country, so I began to read. The country it described was another country than mine.

  After a few minutes Dana Hvide picked up a phone and spoke into it. I heard my name mentioned. She listened and said, “Certainly, sir,” and put the phone down. She stood and gestured toward a door. “Please go right in, Mr. Jackson.”

  I went in.

  12

  Fox was standing behind his desk when I came in. Brad Hillborough was leaning on his cane beside a chair off to one side. In front of Fox, seated in chairs, were two other men. Everybody was wearing a suit and tie and looking at me.

  At the far side of the room was a conference table. On the wall beyond it was a gigantic map of Martha’s Vineyard. The small, colored flags stuck in the map reminded me of those used in maps in military operation centers: Here is the enemy, here is us, here is where we want to be; we’re gathered together to discuss how to get there. When the discussion is over, I will decide what to do and you will go do it.

  “Well, well, Mr. Jackson,” said Fox, “have you changed your mind about working with us?”

  “No. I just have a question.” I glanced at the two men in the chairs.

  “These are trusted colleagues, Mr. Jackson,” said Fox. “You can speak freely. Allow me to introduce them. Gentlemen, this is Mr. J. W. Jackson, of whom I have spoken. Mr. Jackson, this is Jonathan Burns and this is Samuel Jacobs.”

  The men rose and put temporary smiles on their otherwise emotionless faces. As we shook hands and exchanged assurances that our meeting was a pleasure, they studied me with their entrepreneurial eyes.

  “Now, Mr. Jackson, what is it you wish to know?” Fox glanced at his watch. Time is money.

  “Yesterday,” I said, “two men in a green Range Rover with Georgia plates followed me until they realized that I’d spotted them and broke off their surveillance. Today, when they thought I wasn’t looking, they put a tracking device on my car to make their job easier. I got a good look at the men before I got rid of the tracking device.”

  Fox’s eyes seemed to brighten. They moved to Jacobs and Burns and came back to me.

  “My question is: Why are they doing it? I thought it might save us all a lot of time if you just told me what you want to know.”

  Fox stared at me. “Are you sure of your facts?”

  I nodded. “I switched the tracking device to a Tisbury police cruiser, so your two boys will be following the cops instead of me for a while, at least. I thought I’d use the time to have this chat with you. So, what is it that you think you’ll learn by following me around?”

  Fox looked silently at me. Then he said, “You’re absolutely sure of what you’re saying? You’re not mistaken about anything you’ve told me?”

  “I’m sure. Dom Agganis checked the car’s ownership. It’s one of yours. I’m curious about your interest in my travels.”

  “I have no interest in your travels, Mr. Jackson.” He turned and looked again at Jacobs and Burns. “Do either of you know what this is about?” His voice was cold.

  They seemed almost to squirm before his gaze. They flicked glances at each other beneath raised brows and shook their heads, then looked back at Fox and shook them some more. “I don’t know anything about it, Donald,” said Burns.

  “It’s news to me,” agreed Jacobs with a nervous shrug.

  “Nothing that our people do should be news to you two,” snapped Fox. “First someone tries to kill my brother, then Kirkland is murdered, and now this! And you two know nothing about any of it!”

  Jacobs appeared to shrink in size. Burns was cooler. He looked at me. “Please describe the two men, Mr. Jackson, and provide me with the license number of the vehicle, if you have it.”

  I did that. Burns frowned. “Sounds like Wall and Reston,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, Donald, I’ll get right on this.”

  “You do that,” said Fox in a voice like ice. “And you go with him, Sam. Try to do something right for a change!”

  “Yes, Donald!” Jacobs scurried after the departing Burns.

  Fox took a deep breath, sat down, and waved at a chair. “Please sit down, Mr. Jackson. I’m again in your debt, it seems. I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that this surveillance you’ve experienced was not authorized by me.”

  I decided not to come to any conclusion about that, but I took the chair and nodded. “When you figure this business out,” I said, “I’d like to know what’s going on.”

  “I intend to find out. And when I do—” He broke off his speech and his mouth became a hard line across his face.

  “And when you do, you might tell me about it if it doesn’t interfere with business.”

  He inclined his head slightly. “Knowledge is power. When I know the truth of this matter, I’ll decide what information to share.” He put the tips of his long fingers together. “Does it offend you that I might decline to give you information after I’ve willingly accepted information from you?”

  “No. You owe me nothing. I’m not interested in the kind of power you value.”

  He studied me. “What other kind is there?”

  “You’ll get more from a book on philosophy than from me. There’s power over other people and there’s power over yourself. I’m not good at the second kind, but I work at it because it interests me; the first kind doesn’t.”

  His voice was cynical. “The second is only a tool to achieve the first.”

  I said nothing.

  He sat back, his eyes aglow, perhaps with anger. Then he seemed to will his ire away. In a neutral voice, he asked, “What do you make of this surveillance business? Why do you think you were being followed?”

  “Maybe some loyal operatives of yours think I know somebody or something that you should know.”

  “What, for instance?”

  I shook my head. “I came here ho
ping you could tell me.”

  “But perhaps you do know someone or something that I should know. Do you, Mr. Jackson?”

  Beyond Fox I could see Brad Hillborough looking at me with interest, his head cocked slightly to one side.

  “I can’t imagine who or what that might be,” I said, “but maybe you’ve got some enemy action on your hands.”

  Fox stared at me with thoughtful eyes.

  “And,” I said, “maybe the enemy’s living in your house.”

  “What do you mean? Why do you say that?”

  Brad Hillborough answered. “He says it because the surveillance team consists of Saberfox people.”

  I nodded. “That’s right. You seem to have a company problem, Mr. Fox. People under your roof are doing things you don’t know about.”

  Fox’s face was grim. “Not for much longer. I’ve left too much of my business in the hands of people who apparently can’t be trusted. My brother has been urging me to give him more responsibility. Maybe the time has come to do that.” He stood up. “Are you sure you won’t work for me?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then I’ll simply thank you for bringing this matter to my attention. If you’ll excuse me now, I have work to do.”

  I stood and Brad Hillborough did the same. “I’ll escort Mr. Jackson to his car,” he said.

  We went out past the desk and down to the main lobby. Brad Hillborough limped along silently until we were outside, standing by my old Land Cruiser. Then he looked around the parking lot and said, “You’re in the middle of this somehow. Want to tell me about it?”

  “Like I said upstairs, I came here so your boss could explain things to me. If I knew what was going on, I wouldn’t have needed to ask.”