“Information gathering and mob violence. Those are words we reserve for men,” Edith nodded.
“I feel better already,” Sabra Jane’s grin lengthened. “It’s good to be understood.”
LESS than a hour later, long before they depleted their pile of rocks, Sabra Jane, Willa, and Edith sped off in the Reo, aimed toward Daggett’s office, a red button clutched securely in Edith’s left hand. She had discovered it among the rocks only minutes before they leapt into the Reo.
Edith planted her right hand on the seat of the rumble to hold herself upright during the rush around corners. Willa’s auburn hair streamed back, while Sabra Jane’s strawberry red was encased in a bright plaid cap. The sharp breeze on Edith’s face felt delicious, like the wind off the Plains on a hot August day. Edith missed those days and the creak of a saddle and swing of a horse loping beneath her. She knew Willa did too. But this was exciting, a red button turning up in the pile of rocks and a dash to tell Daggett.
Sabra Jane would be cleared of suspicion. Edith felt sure of it. But if Sabra Jane were innocent, Edith surprised herself with the thought, who was guilty? Until this moment, Edith realized, she had focused so thoroughly on disassociating Sabra Jane from the person on the cliff, she had forgotten to consider who did belong to the outflung arm and red-shirted back.
While the car lurched and gathered speed, Edith went over in her mind the list of people she knew to be suspects. The Jordans had seen Roy Sharkey, young James, Sabra Jane, Herb Gordon, Little John Winslow, and Matthew Johnson. And Rebecca Jackson had sold red shirts to Sam Jackson, Sabra Jane, Mary Daniels, Little John Winslow, and Matthew Johnson. Edith’s mind began to make automatic matches, but she caught herself in the midst of another lurch and skid as the car came to a stop at Tattons Corner before turning left into North Head. Those five were surely not the only red shirts on Grand Manan. Every fisherman probably owned at least one, and the men who went over to the mainland to work in the woods more than likely had several.
About all the red shirt did, Edith braced herself for the sudden stop in front of Daggett’s office, was to eliminate most of the wives on Grand Manan. Every one of their husbands remained fair game. But why would an islander, Edith brushed road dust from her knees, want to kill a man who had never before set foot on the island?
“YES, indeed,” Daggett agreed, “motive is the key,” once Sabra Jane, Willa, and Edith crowded their chairs around the large desk in the middle of his office. Daggett had no secretary or secondary officer, so he was free to arrange furniture anyway he liked. He chose openness with a sense of balance. Edith liked that about him.
“Motive and opportunity, watch words for detectives,” Daggett halted. He obviously was not paying attention even to his own little speech. His eyes were fixed on the pair of red buttons staring up from his blotter. They were identical.
“You had opportunity,” Daggett finally lifted his eyes to meet Sabra Jane’s. “Others did too. But even without this button to suggest your innocence, Miss Briggs, I’ve not been able to guess what possible reason you might have for killing that man,” Daggett shrugged and took a moment to tamp down his pipe.
“Trouble is,” Daggett continued, striking a match and leaning back in his chair, “I come up with a similar blank for every person I can think of who might have had opportunity.”
“Who does that include?” Sabra Jane’s brows were knit, the freckles on her forehead muted by tan.
“Well, there’s still a small list I haven’t yet dealt with,” Daggett shook his head.
“Mr. Johnson is among them, I suppose,” Edith prompted.
Daggett raised an eyebrow.
“I know nothing about the fellow, actually,” Edith shifted in her chair, “I just remember Mary Jordan mentioned seeing him. And I saw him the next day with his wife and friends at Rose Cottage when I stopped in for tea. He seemed regular enough. City man, of course. Tennis is a city sport.”
Daggett drew on his pipe.
“What happens if we start from the other direction?” Willa leaned forward, her voice meditative. “I mean, what exactly do we know about Mr. Brown?”
“Unfortunately little,” Daggett pushed the telegrams from Boston and New York across his desk. “I’ve had no help from outside, and you know as much as I do about his activities here,” Daggett rose to retrieve a file lying on top of the cabinets at the back of his office.
“Captain Whitson said he signed the passenger list and had a passport,” Daggett flipped through the notes in the file, “but no one remembered checking the passport and there were no signs of either passport or wallet on his body. Nothing among his things at Swallowtail, either. Hardly anything personal, for that matter.”
Daggett returned to his desk, the file still in his hands. He flipped through several more sheets.
“St. John sends word they have no record of any Yanks by that name. So I’m down to the one place that hasn’t responded to my request for information. New Bedford, Massachusetts.” Daggett glanced up, “Any of you know the place?”
No one did.
“His shirts were done by a laundry there.”
“Mr. Brown’s suit was badly ripped,” Willa’s words were measured, her brow furrowed. “His passport and wallet might have been lost on the rocks.”
“Yes, and with the tide on its way out, they could be anywhere by now,” Sabra Jane completed Willa’s thought.
Daggett placed the open file on his desk.
“What about New York and Boston,” Edith lifted the telegrams still in her hands, “what was Mr. Brown’s connection there?”
Daggett closed the file and turned to his notes.
“Tailor tags. Marvin Gates, Boston’s Finest Tailor. And in New York, Abercrombie and Fitch.”
“My favorite wishing place,” Sabra Jane’s grin included her eyes.
“Beg your pardon?”
“They carry all the finest equipment for the outdoors, right down to safari jackets and elephant guns,” Willa chuckled. “Teddy Roosevelt alone has kept them busy for years.”
“But what did Mr. Brown buy there,” Edith wondered aloud.
“Binoculars?” Willa guessed.
“A gun,” Sabra Jane pronounced.
“No, no, no,” Daggett halted speculation. “There was a bird book but no gun. No binoculars, either. At least, none that I know of. Just a navy blue sweater.”
“That’s odd,” Willa sounded speculative.
“Odd?”
“In a place like this, birders carry binoculars.”
“Well, this birder carried an Abercrombie and Fitch sweater,” Daggett glanced back at his notes, “a navy blue pullover.”
“Mr. Brown would not have had to be in New York to get that,” Willa suggested. “Someone might have given it to him.”
Again, they sat in silence.
“I’ve never been to New Bedford,” Sabra Jane tried a new tack. “What’s in New Bedford that would interest Mr. Brown?”
“I don’t know,” Edith shook her head.
“Mills, water, docks,” Willa offered a guess. “It’s close to Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket.”
“If only we knew more about Mr. Brown and his interests,” Edith returned the telegrams to their place on Daggett’s desk.
ROB Feeney heard the Chevrolet’s sputter and glanced up from his desk. The Chevrolet paused and Rob half expected the constable to pull up in front of his office, but Daggett turned toward the docks. There’s a man with too much on his mind, Rob almost said the words aloud and glanced at the lists of passengers and crew waiting for Daggett on the corner of his desk. Rob wondered whether he should take them over to Daggett’s office, but he had his own work to do and Daggett was clearly off on an errand.
Rob didn’t envy Daggett. All that running around must produce very little certain progress and when it did it brought a great many surprises. The definition of mystery. The bumpy business of making the unknown known. Rob much preferred the steady beat of his own
routine.
“LISTEN here, Isaacs, you may not want to talk to me, but I want a word with you,” Daggett placed a hand on Burt Isaacs’ arm. “We can talk here, now, or you can come to my office.”
Isaacs pulled loose and turned away, leaving Daggett with his profile, the set of his jaw broken only by a wad of chewing tobacco wedged between his back teeth. Isaacs stared intently ahead, apparently focused on a sailboat about a hundred yards out. Not far to its left, two whales leapt out of the sea.
Daggett watched them also, alerted by the sound. Humpbacks, both of them, the first of this season.
“Aren’t they something now,” Isaacs’ belligerence had vanished, like wind from the boat’s sails. He rested his elbows on the railing that ran along this section of the wharf.
The whales disappeared. The sailboat picked up speed.
“I’m asking what you were doing on the mainland,” Daggett refused to be distracted. “And I’m asking whether you ever met this fellow before and what you noticed about him.”
“Like I told the Captain, I was logging for Jack Watson,” Isaacs kept his eyes on the sea. “I never saw that man before in my life. Wouldn’t know him if he walked up to us right now,” Isaacs spat and wiped his mouth. “And I don’t know a damn about his passport or his wallet or his luggage. Why would I,” Isaacs flicked his eyes toward Daggett. It was a statement, not a question.
“From what I’ve heard, Jack Watson runs bourbon over the border.”
“What’s it to you?” The wad of tobacco shifted from one side of Isaacs’ jaw to the other.
“I understand you talked to Mr. Brown coming over on the ferry.”
“Who says?”
“Doesn’t matter, it’s what I heard,” Daggett studied the side of Isaacs’ tanned face. The lips were taut, jaw firm. A muscle twitched next to his eye.
“There they go again,” Isaacs nodded.
First one whale, then the other leapt high into a dive, arching until their fluted tails ended their long, sleek glide, like flags hailing the powerful grace of their rise and return.
“Next time they’ll beat the boat,” Isaacs looked directly at Daggett, his brown eyes glinting, then back out to sea. “See if they don’t.”
“You think it’s a contest?”
The sailboat shot forward.
“Everything’s a contest,” a stream of brown saliva shot out from between Isaacs’ lips. It arched out and down, then disappeared into the blue-green swirl at the base of the pier. “Winning’s what counts,” Isaacs shifted the wad to the other side of his mouth.
Daggett heard first one, then the other whale spout. Towers of water rose high into the air, then the bend of their backs and their tails signaled the start of another long descent.
Ten yards behind, the sailboat sped on.
“THERE’S nothing that adds up about this Mr. Brown, is there?” Willa leaned back against the Adirondack chair and swirled her glass until ice clinked against its sides.
“Whatever adds up is certainly not apparent,” Edith agreed, settling into her own Adirondack, placing her glass on its wide arm.
Edith and Willa enjoyed an evening cocktail to whet their appetites before dinner. They were starting a bit early this evening, but they agreed that they needed to take a break and the gin tasted especially good. Not only had they gone to the extravagance of chipping ice for their drinks, they were ready for some serious relaxation after moving rocks with Sabra Jane and then racing off to see Daggett, red button in hand.
“You would think by now with Daggett’s inquiries and all these telegrams coming in, Mr. Brown’s personal story would be taking shape,” Edith complained, “but it’s only pointing to loose ends.”
“And loose buttons,” Willa chuckled.
“Yes,” Edith smiled, “but at least this last one made it much harder to point a finger at Sabra Jane.”
XI
COMPARED TO BURT ISAACS, Herb Gordon, Jr. had proved a font of information. Words tumbled from his mouth before Daggett could finish a question. Trouble was, Herb Jr. had nothing to tell Daggett about Mr. Brown or his demise.
But Herb Jr. did have first-hand experience with every rumor racing through North Head, and he had plenty to say on the subject of Sabra Jane Briggs—her clothes, her pottery, her Reo, her lodgers, the sort of food she chose to put on her table, the way she loped through the woods, how she came from New York with a woman named Marjorie, what she had done to the old Ingersoll place, what she was doing to the farm she now called The Anchorage. But all Herb Jr. could say about Mr. Brown or the afternoon of his death was that he had ridden his bicycle to The Whistle and back between the hours of one and three. During that time, he had seen a flock of sheep but not one person, no one at all, either coming or going.
Mary Daniels proved equally forthcoming and uninformative. Mary was delighted Daggett stopped by. She fed him a piece of gooseberry pie and made him walk every step of the way around the outside of her cottage to admire the new roof her son had installed when he returned from the mainland, where he had been making more money working on commercial fishing boats than he could for Sam Jackson on Grand Manan. Mary had been widowed when James was a toddler, and it was hard for her with no man around while James was off making his way in the world. Now James was home and wanted to start his own family with Eric Dawson’s sister, a fair-haired beauty if Mary did say so herself. The problem was still money. James managed to find work with Sam Jackson and Roy Sharkey, though Mr. Sharkey just wanted help delivering rocks to those famous ladies at Whale Cove, such nice women they are, Mary added, nodding. She thought they could make do, the three of them together, under this new roof.
But when it came to answering Daggett’s questions about the red shirt, all Mary could tell Daggett was that she bought it for James, who was still out on Sam Jackson’s boat. The shirt was not in James’ room, and Mary could not say when or even whether James had worn it. James was due back that evening, but everything depended on their catch. The season had been slow and dragging for scallops could be a difficult business, as Daggett well knew.
Tourist Brochure 1927
MATTHEW JOHNSON was another matter altogether. Daggett found him with his wife Maggie, sitting on opposite ends of the arbor swing behind Swallowtail. Wisteria entwined with grape vines covered the lattice, providing shade from the late afternoon sun. Among a semicircle of lawn chairs facing the arbor, two carried wet spots on their arms, apparently left by tumblers like the one Maggie Johnson still cradled in her right hand. Daggett could see two cubes of ice and some sort of pale liquid. He raised an eyebrow. Ice cubes were rare on the island.
A third wet spot glistened on the arm of the swing near Matthew Johnson’s elbow. He seemed perfectly comfortable, lounging next to his wife in spotless tennis whites. His wife wore something drapey and loose with a bold blue design. Beach pajamas, Daggett thought they were called, though he never expected to see anyone in an outfit like that on Grand Manan. A wide-brimmed straw hat took up the center of the swing. Its baby blue sash fluttered with each back and forth roll.
“I doubt that I can be of much help, Constable,” Johnson bent his head over a match, then leaned back to blow cigarette smoke with measured force. His blue eyes watched intently as the white puff dispersed the air. His face was framed by light chestnut hair, slicked back and spare, with deep vees on each side, the top of his forehead pink from the sun.
“The man who died, well, we have no idea who that man was,” Maggie Johnson spoke with a certain listlessness, her voice low, the words throaty, “but we are eminently curious about the details of your investigation.”
“The details, yes.”
Maggie Johnson surprised Daggett. By now he had heard a great deal about this young couple and expected Johnson to be, as he seemed, distant, relaxed, fit. But Johnson’s wife Daggett expected to be edgy, brittle, almost high-strung, yet her words came slow and listless, tinged with arrogance and boredom. Daggett had heard she smoked cigarettes, and now
it seemed she drank liquor as well. The women he knew did neither.
Fast living, Daggett watched Maggie Johnson sip from her glass. Her lips matched the enameled blaze on her nails. Johnson blew another precise stream of smoke, this time directed toward Daggett, then flicked at an ash poised on the crease of his trousered left leg. Fast living and a great deal of money, Daggett concluded.
“Ah, Constable, won’t you join us in a gin fizz?” The voice came from behind, then attached itself, as Daggett turned, to the male half of the other couple in Johnson’s party, a lanky fellow named Jameson according to The Swallowtail registry, Samuel Jameson.
“Name’s Sam.”
With drinks in both hands, Jameson nodded instead of offering to shake.
“We’re celebrating Independence eve, Constable,” the willowy blond in Jameson’s wake bore a dish of crackers along with her drink. “We’ve already celebrated your Canada Day.”
“My wife Jean,” Jameson nodded toward the blond. “You’ve met Matt and Maggie, I guess,” Jameson’s glance took in the swing.
“Independence eve?”
“American independence from the Brits. You know,” Jean Jameson’s lips rose lazily at the corners.
“Oh, Fourth of July. Of course.”
Daggett waited while Jameson handed Johnson his drink and his wife resumed her seat and balanced the plate of crackers on her knees. Jean Jameson was also adorned in beach pajamas, though hers were all lemony and pale orange. Daggett preferred them to the blue.
“Come on now, Mags, give us a smile, why don’t you,” Jameson cajoled, nudging the swing with his knee. “The girls are tired of life on the island,” he turned to Daggett. “Can’t seem to think of anything to do with their time.”
“There is nothing to do,” Jean Jameson corrected her husband, smiling vaguely in Daggett’s direction. “I don’t like to hike, and I’m not the least bit interested in boats or birds.”
“What did I tell you,” Jameson shrugged toward Daggett. “Now, how about that drink,” he took a step toward the inn.
On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery Page 11
