A Vineyard Killing

by Philip R. Craig

  I went through the house room by room and decided, from the number of travel and sailing magazines I found, that Rick apparently fantasized about visiting far-off countries and owning a large yacht.

  For a bachelor he kept a fairly neat house, but his pantry, refrigerator, and rubbish containers revealed him as a guy who lived mostly out of cans and cartons and who drank light beer. No wonder he’d lost that fight with me.

  I found his shotgun in a closet and his fishing and shellfishing gear in the basement, but I didn’t find any sign of a handgun or an interest in one. There were no gun magazines, leather, boxes of bullets, or other suggestions that Rick was a pistoleer in fact or in fancy.

  He had a good collection of well-maintained wood tools and there was a photo of Maria Donawa on his mantel. She was smiling at the camera. The picture had been taken during happier times for Rick.

  A car went by on the road, and as soon as it was gone I went out the way I’d come in, got back to the truck, and drove away. I didn’t want to risk having more than one passing driver remember that my Land Cruiser had been parked in Rick’s neighbor’s driveway.

  It had been several days since Paul Fox had been shot outside the E and E Deli and I had gotten involved with the inner circle of Saberfox. During those days Albert Kirkland had been killed, I’d been tailed by Wall and Reston, I’d found John Reilley’s underground lair, and I’d been attacked by Rick Black.

  It had been a busy few days. In fact, it had been a busy morning. But now it was noon and I was hungry, so I drove to Edgartown and had lunch at the Newes From America, which offers good pub food and excellent beer. I had the twenty-ounce glass of Red Tail ale while I ate my fried calamari and ran things through my mind. By the time my glass and plate were empty I had an afternoon plan and some thoughts that were less fuzzy than before.

  I headed for Saberfox headquarters in Oak Bluffs.

  Dana Hvide still guarded the gateway. I told her I wanted to talk with Donald Fox and she told me that he wasn’t in the office. I asked her where I could find him and she said she didn’t know. I didn’t believe her, but asked her to tell him, the next time she saw or heard from him, that I wanted to see him. She said she would do that. I asked her where I could find Paul Fox and she said she didn’t know. I didn’t believe her some more. I asked her if Saberfox reps left their computers in the office every night, and she said no. I smiled and thanked her and left.

  The first person I saw when I went into the ER at the hospital was my wife, who had her back to me as she talked to a boy who looked so young that I knew he must be a doctor. Zee has very fine lines, and I admired them as I approached and gave her a surprise smooch on the neck. She turned and smiled.

  “What are you doing here? Are you an emergency?”

  “You don’t look startled. Do you get kisses on the neck regularly?”

  “All the time. Other places, too. What brings you to this temple of healing if you don’t need our expert care? Oh, by the way, this is Dr. Fred DaMoura. Fred, this is my husband, Hot Lips.”

  Fred and I shook hands. “Nice to know you, Hot Lips,” he said.

  “You, too, Fred.” I watched him move away, then put my hands on Zee’s shoulders. “I’m actually looking for another woman. Maybe you can help me. I’ll come back to you when I’m through with her.”

  “Lucky me. Who is this poor woman who has you in her future?”

  “Maria Donawa. I know she works here somewhere, but I don’t know where.”

  I got directions to Maria’s desk, walked through a couple of halls until I found it, and said hello.

  “Why, hello yourself, J.W. What brings you here?”

  “I’m looking for Paul Fox. I figured you might know where he is. How’s he feeling these days?”

  She sat back. “He’s still got pretty sore ribs, but he’s feeling better. Donald wants him to go back to Savannah, but he won’t do it.”

  “He probably thinks he has a good reason to stay here.”

  She smiled a bit primly. “He may be right. I’m not sure where he is right now. He may be out with Donald somewhere, but sometimes, if his ribs are hurting, he takes a little rest in the afternoon before he goes back to work. So he may be in his suite. Donald won’t let him work if he’s feeling tired. They’re very close.” She scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Paul’s learning the business end of things now, but Donald wants him to take all the time he needs to get better.”

  “Maybe Paul wants to get married and settle down and he thinks he needs a steady job.”

  “Maybe he does.” Then her smile changed to a frown. “But I don’t like the idea of him working for Saberfox.”

  “The real estate and development business probably isn’t any worse than any other business, and there’s certainly plenty of money in it.”

  “It’s a lot worse the way Saberfox does it!”

  “If Paul takes over, he can change company policy.”

  She nodded. “That would be good, but nothing will change as long as Donald and Brad Hillborough are running things.”

  “I didn’t know Hillborough ran things.”

  She sighed. “I guess he really doesn’t, but his loyalty is to Donald, not to Paul. He doesn’t want any changes Donald doesn’t want. It’s hard for anyone to turn a company around when the old guard is against change.”

  That was probably true. I didn’t mention the possibility that Saberfox might change Paul more than Paul might change Saberfox. Instead, I thanked her for her help, returned to the ER, gave Zee another kiss, and left the hospital.

  Paul Fox’s apartment was on the first floor of the Martin’s Vineyard Hotel, downstairs from the Saberfox offices, where, not long before, Dana Hvide had assured me that she had no idea where Paul was.

  Maybe she really didn’t. Maybe he was off with his brother somewhere. But I parked and knocked on his door anyway and was pleasantly surprised when he opened it.

  “Mr. Jackson, come in.”

  His suite had been decorated by some New England minimalist with a liking for white walls and furniture. All that white made the place a bit too bright but it was otherwise comfortable enough. Paul Fox sat me in a soft white chair beside a white coffee table and eased himself carefully down in its twin.

  “I’m still a little tender,” he said apologetically,

  “but it’s getting better every day.”

  “I’ve never known anybody who enjoyed being shot,” I said. “I’d like to talk with you about Saberfox. Your brother doesn’t let much out about the business, but I’m hoping I can learn a bit from you.”

  He became wary. “What do you want to know? Why?”

  I touched first one finger then the next, then the next. “You were shot, Albert Kirkland was murdered, two guys named Wall and Reston have been following me. The common denominator is Saberfox. I need to know more about the company than I do now.”

  “Wall and Reston have been following you? Are you sure?”

  “Your brother thinks it’s them. He says he knows nothing about it.”

  “Nor do I.” He ran a hand across his face, the way some people do when they’re trying to think their way out of confusion, and stared at me silently. Then he got up and crossed the room to a desk and came back. He handed me a brochure. “This tells you all about the company.”

  “I’ll read it,” I said. “But what I want to know isn’t written on a piece of paper. I need to know about the people inside, including Reston and Wall. What they think, what they feel, where their loyalties lie, what they argue about.”

  He shook his head uncomfortably. “If Donald won’t talk about that, I won’t either.”

  I pulled out his IOU. “I may have saved your life when I hauled you out of the street, Paul. This will make us even. I don’t want business secrets, I want to know what you know about the psychodynamics of the top level of the company: who hates who, who loves who, who has an ax to grind. I’m looking for a killer and I need help.”

&n
bsp; “There aren’t any killers working for Saberfox,” he said. Then his hand strayed to his chest and he made his decision. “All right, I do owe you something, but I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know exactly what you want to know.”

  I wasn’t sure myself. “Let’s start at the beginning,” I said. “Tell me how Donald got going in this business. It’s a big operation. How did it start?”

  He sat back in his soft white chair and stared with unfocused eyes at a spot just over my head.

  I waited, wondering if he was going to tell me the truth or some true-sounding, self-serving lie.

  When he was satisfied with his thoughts, he brought his gaze back to my eyes.

  “It was fencing that made it possible,” he said. “I guess we can start there.”

  19

  “Donald was always a good athlete, but he was a prodigious talent as a fencer, particularly in saber. He got a scholarship to New York University and won the NCAA saber championship during his junior and senior years. Then, as you probably know, he became the only American to win a gold medal in Olympic fencing. He was twenty-three.”

  “Pretty impressive,” I said.

  Paul Fox nodded. “Yes. He had that monomaniacal focus that it takes to be a champion. He had no life other than studying and fencing, and looking after me.”

  I raised a brow.

  Seeing it, he went on. “Our parents were dead, killed in one of those car wrecks you hear about too often: a drunk crossed into their lane and hit them head-on. The drunk lived, of course, but they died. I was ten years old and Donald was in college. Insurance kept us going until he was through school, and after that he paid my way. I was never half the athlete he was and my grades weren’t good enough for a big scholarship, but he parlayed his gold medals into business opportunities, and the same intensity that made him a champion fencer made him the successful businessman he’s become. He took care of me through school, and now I’m working for him.”

  “He doesn’t have the reputation of being generous.”

  Fox frowned. “As a fencer he was cold as ice and never popular in spite of his success. He didn’t care. Winning was everything. He’s never had time for social graces. He never married and he doesn’t have friends. He doesn’t let down his guard to anyone but me. I’m his whole family.” He paused. “Except, maybe, for Brad Hillborough.”

  “Hillborough?”

  “Yes. Brad lives for my brother, and he’d die for him. You saw that cane of his. He’s never once complained about what it cost him to save Donald’s life.”

  “How’d they meet?”

  “Brad was on the NYU fencing team with Donald, although he was never of championship caliber. But unlike others, he didn’t resent Donald’s success. Instead, he became the closest thing Donald had to a friend. He majored in physical therapy and became Donald’s personal trainer while they were still in college. He took responsibility for my brother’s diet and exercise routine, massaged him, cared for his bruises and sprains, and did it all gladly. He kept it up through the Olympics, and when Donald went into business afterward, Brad went with him. He’s still Donald’s trainer.”

  I thought Hillborough’s devotion sounded like that of a dog, but I only said, “Sancho Panza. Watson. The faithful, trusted friend.”

  “Yes. And Donald has needed such a friend, because he has no others and trusts no one else except me.”

  “How do you and Hillborough get along?”

  “He tolerates me. I don’t think he trusts me to be as competent as my brother and he’s probably right to doubt, because I’m different from Donald. I lack his killer instinct. Brad doesn’t approve of the people I’ve brought into the firm, either.” He looked at me from beneath lowered lids. “You mentioned two of them: Peter Wall and Chris Reston. You say they’ve been following you. Do you know why?”

  “Why don’t you ask them? If you find out let me know. Why did you bring them into Saberfox?”

  “Peter and Chris were my best friends in college. They’re research-oriented and educated in business, just the sort of people Saberfox needs to ferret out questionable land titles.”

  “A sorry kind of work,” I said.

  “You may be right, but it’s legal and it’s profitable. It’s one of the things that Saberfox does, and Peter and Chris are good at digging through old records. Brad is suspicious of them anyway, probably because he thinks their loyalty is to me rather than to Donald.”

  “Are there people he trusts?”

  “A couple, maybe. There was one more until last week: Al Kirkland. He and Al weren’t close, but he trusted Al.”

  “It sounds to me as though there are two factions in the inner circle: you and your friends, and your brother, Brad Hillborough, and their friends.”

  “I don’t think my brother would consider any of his employees friends, with the possible exception of Brad, and I’m not even sure if Brad is an exception.”

  “Brad apparently feels some sort of special tie to your brother.”

  “Yes.” Fox frowned and shrugged.

  “Does Hillborough have a family?”

  “No. Saberfox is his family. My brother is the closest thing he has to kin.”

  “Your brother is a handsome, wealthy man,” I said. “I’d think that there’d be women in his life.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Paul, showing me a crooked smile, “but I assure you that my brother is not a homosexual. There have been many women in his life, but none for very long. He uses them and they use him and they go their own ways. Maybe when Donald has earned all of the money he thinks he needs, he’ll marry and start a dynasty to inherit his empire.”

  I thought he’d have no problem finding a wife, since I was at least a semi-believer in the old saw that men cannot resist beauty and women cannot resist money.

  “And where will that leave you?” I asked.

  “I have a trust fund. Donald set it up for me. I don’t need to work.”

  “Then why do you?”

  “Because I don’t enjoy being a slug. Most people don’t.”

  I thought he was right. Most of the moneyed people I know work hard at something: sport, volunteerism, or figuring out how to make more money or give away what they have. It had been one of my most surprising self-discoveries when I learned that I wasn’t happy being lazy. I’d always thought I was a natural sloth.

  “What do you know about Albert Kirkland?”

  “I know that Brad Hillborough knew him and brought him into the firm. My impression was that Brad wanted at least one person he could trust completely. Kirkland was good at his work, of course. Brad is incredibly defensive about Saberfox and would never hire an incompetent.”

  “Was Kirkland more loyal to Brad or to Saberfox?”

  Paul’s brow furled. “I never thought of the question. I don’t know the answer.”

  “What was his background? His education? Where did he and Brad Hillborough meet?”

  “I don’t know about his education, but he and Brad met at the Olympic trials when Al was trying out for the pentathlon. Why do you need to know?”

  “Is there a file on Kirkland? Something the company would have kept on each of its employees?”

  “If there is it’s in Savannah, and I’ve never seen it. Why are you so interested in Al Kirkland? He’s the victim, not the killer.”

  “There are always two stories in killings,” I said. “The killer’s and the victim’s. They start out apart and they come together. If I can learn Kirkland’s story, maybe I can figure out how he got himself killed. That’s why I need to know about you. So I can figure out who wants you dead.”

  He shook his head. “Nobody wants me dead. I don’t have any enemies at all. Those shots were meant for my brother. I don’t like to admit it, but a lot of people hate him enough to kill him. That’s why I was wearing armor that day. I wanted to see if it was uncomfortable or inconvenient before I asked him to wear it.”

  “He was very happy that y
ou were wearing that vest.”

  He smiled. “Me, too. I’d actually been wearing it for several days but nobody knew it. Now Donald is considering wearing one, too, so it was worth taking those bullets.”

  “Has anyone else tried to shoot him?”

  “No, but people are always attacking Donald. In court, in the papers. A few people have even tried to assault him. The worst was that woman in the car who tried to run him down.”

  “But Brad Hillborough saved him.”

  “Yes, at considerable cost to himself. But Brad couldn’t stop them all. One man got past Brad and hit Donald. He didn’t hurt him. What happened then was worse. Donald pretended he’d been challenged to a duel. The man had been a fencer and Donald shamed him into meeting him with sabers.”

  “That would be akin to murder. The man must have been a fool.”

  “Worse yet, he fancied himself a Southern gentleman who was obliged to save face. His face was about all he saved, as it turned out.”

  “Your brother was a world champion. He must have chopped him to pieces.”

  “Oh, no. They didn’t use cavalry sabers, they used the fencing kind. You know, with the thin blades. But did you ever take a slash across the back by a heavy-handed saber fencer? It’s worse than a blacksnake whip.

  “My brother didn’t kill him, he slashed him to his knees until he wept with pain and couldn’t even stand. The fellow was welts and cuts from his waist to his neck. Donald was careful not to hit his face, and made sure there was a doctor on hand. The man still has the scars, and he’s more of a mouse now than a lion.”

  “Weren’t charges brought against your brother?”

  “No. It had been agreed that if anyone asked it had been a fencing lesson. Word got out, but no one ever officially asked about what had happened.”

  “The doctor didn’t speak up?”