She frowned. “What was Corrie’s guitar doing out there?” Then, “Oh my gosh!”
“Yeah,” I said. “Corrie wouldn’t have left the island without his guitar.”
She looked at me with her great, dark eyes. “He wouldn’t, would he?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t know, but I don’t think so.”
In her eyes I saw pity and sorrow and felt like I was seeing a reflection of my own. The eyes are the windows of the soul, they say. I put my hand on her thigh and she put her hand over mine.
— 12 —
At home we said nothing more about me working for Ben Krane. For Zee and me, hot-and-heavy disagreements were not a regular thing, and we were therefore not well practiced in dealing with such events. However, we each knew the other’s stubbornness and anger span (in my case, two days, max, before I tended to forget why I’d been mad), and thus had mutually adopted a wait-it-out policy of conflict resolution. Screamers, some say, get arguments out of their systems fairly quickly, but we who are inclined toward sullenness and silence take longer.
The best thing was to stay off each other’s toes while feelings were young and tender, so I left Zee at the house with her still-inquisitive son (“Are there lots of scumbags, Ma?”) and took Diana the Huntress with me as I drove downtown.
Edgartown in June was not nearly so crowded as it would become in July and August, but already the streets were full of pale-skinned tourists peeking into shop windows; nibbling on goodies from the delis, ice cream parlors, and candy stores; and wandering blithely in front of cars. Vineyard visitors apparently think that the island is a make-believe place, like Disneyland, so they feel free to casually walk in the middle of the streets since the automobiles are only props. Fortunately, most local drivers are used to this and are very careful not to run over anyone.
Helping them out are the Edgartown police, who do their best to keep things moving but safe for one and all. I found the chief down by the town hall, telling yet another bicyclist that Main Street was forbidden territory for two-wheelers. The cyclist went away, pushing her bike.
“You know you’re wasting your time, don’t you?” I said, coming up as the cyclist was leaving. “Bicycle riders are illiterate. They can’t read signs. Especially signs that say ‘No bicycles.’”
“If you mean I’m shoveling shit against the tide, you’re right,” he said. “But that’s a policeman’s lot. We do it for a living. We try to keep people from breaking the law, but they break it anyway. And if we catch them, the bondsmen bail them out, the lawyers get them off, and the judges let them go.”
He didn’t sound too sour, however; he was just realistic. Actually, cops spend most of their time on jobs having little to do with crime as such. Besides directing traffic and patrolling the roads, they break up domestic arguments before they get violent, help fallen elderly to get back in bed, and PC drunks for the night and let them go again the next morning. They help round up farm animals that are loose on the roads, and they tote people to the emergency room of the hospital. Most of the violence they encounter is in the form of accidents: drunks and teens driving their cars into trees at high rates of speed, moped riders spilling themselves onto the pavement, or people chopping off their toes while mowing the lawn.
From time to time, of course, they meet with criminal violence. The wife beater, the pedophile, the knifer, the robber, the man with a gun.
The arsonist.
I’d left the Boston PD to get away from all that, but of course there is no away and no man is an island even on an island, so here I was, nosing around in the very business I’d once forsworn.
The chief looked at Diana, who was riding on my back in her canvas kid-holder. He put out a hand to her. “Hello.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw her little hand meet his. “How do you do?” said her small voice.
“You look like your mother,” said the chief. Then he looked at me. “Fortunately.”
The chief had grandchildren older than Diana.
“She has her mother’s looks, but my brains and ready wit,” I said.
“I’m sorry to hear that, kid,” said the chief, looking back at her. “Maybe things will work out for you anyway.”
“We’re going to get ice cream,” said Diana.
“In a little while,” I said. “First I have to talk to the chief, here.”
“I knew the day was going too well,” said the chief.“What do you want?”
I told him about the job I’d just taken with Ben Krane. He didn’t change expression, but something altered in his eyes.
“I guess Ben doesn’t trust the fire marshal,” he said.
“He didn’t seem to when I talked to him. He thinks I have local knowledge that will make the difference.”
“I didn’t know you were an arson investigator, J.W. I thought you were just a fisherman living up there in the woods.”
“I was at a couple of fire scenes when I worked in Boston,” I said, “but all I did was glance in the rooms, then stand outside and look official while the arson squad did the real work.”
“But Ben Krane wants you to work for him anyway. Doesn’t make much sense to me. I always thought Ben was a bright guy. Maybe I was wrong.”
“Maybe you can help me be as smart as Ben wants me to be. What can you tell me about arson investigations?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, for a start you can tell me who does the investigating.”
“Not us local hicks, for sure. We’re not smart enough to do complicated stuff like handle fires that aren’t your ordinary accidental kind. No, it’s the state boys who handle the arson cases. The fire marshals are part of the state police. Whenever there’s a suspicious fire or a death, they come in to investigate.”
“Ah. Just like with homicides or suspicious deaths of any kind. You local guys step aside and the state cops take over.”
“You got it, Sherlock,” said the chief. “Us country bumpkins are good enough for the stupid stuff, but we’re too dim for the work that takes brains.”
The chief made this familiar comment without any particular tone of annoyance in his voice, almost as though he were talking about the weather.
And why should he do otherwise? Conflict between law enforcement agencies is pretty commonplace, after all. The state cops are uncooperative with the local cops; both the state and local cops resent the federal cops; the federal cops are uncooperative with everybody, including the international cops; and so forth. The consequences of these rivalries are always bad for law enforcement, but the conflicts continue anyway, to the frustration of all involved, especially those civilians and police officers who are more interested in crime solving than in power, prestige, and point scoring. It has been argued by some of them that warring police agencies are the perps’ best friends. Could be.
“Who decides that the fire marshals should be called in?” I asked.
“The fire chief. The state guys don’t consider him up to making an arson investigation, but they figure he’s at least sharp enough to suspect that it may have happened. Of course, if somebody dies in the fire, the marshals get an automatic call.”
“So the marshal is here already, because of the body?”
He nodded. “But it’s not marshal in this case. It’s marshals. Two of them. Don’t ask me why. They should be up at the house any time now.”
I thought about that and said, “Were they here after the other house burned a couple of nights ago?”
He looked at me. “Not that I know of. When that house burned, everybody thought it was an accident. I imagine there are some doubts about that theory now, though, so I expect Mr. and Mrs. Dings may take a good look at that place, too.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Dings? Married arson investigators?”
“Jack and Sandy. Apparently they’re a team. Where he goes, she goes; where she goes, he goes. Maybe I should give my wife a badge.”
“I don’t think she’d take it
. She sees enough of you already. Where are they staying while they’re down here?”
“None of your business. You take my advice, you’ll stay out of the Dingses’ hair. They take their work seriously and they do not suffer fools gladly.”
Another illiterate cyclist came down the street, and the chief stepped out and held up his hand. The cyclist, looking surprised, stopped.
“You can’t ride bikes on this street,” said the chief in a gentle voice.
“Oh.”
“There’s a sign right up there that tells you that. You have to turn left onto Church Street.”
“Oh.” The cyclist looked vaguely back up the street.
“There are bike racks at the end of Church Street on Pease’s Point Way. Or you can walk your bike on down Main.” The chief smiled a warm, small-town smile.
“Oh. Okay. Sorry.”
“Tell your friends about the sign and have a good day.”
“Thanks.”
The chief stepped back and the cyclist, walking his bike, went down the street.
“How come you never smile at me like that?” I asked. “I never see that nice palsy-walsy face looking at me.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” said the chief. “You move off island and only come back for a week each year and I’ll pretend to be friendly to you, too. It’d be worth a smile to be rid of you most of the year.”
“What a thing to say to a man with his little baby daughter listening to every word.”
The chief gave Diana the smile he wouldn’t give to me. “Now don’t you worry, sweetie, you can stay and your mom and your brother can stay; it’s just your old man that’s got to go.”
A small hand tugged at my ear. “Pa, I want some ice cream.”
“Diana the Huntress is always seeking food,” I explained. “I’ll see you later.”
“I’m sure.” I was about four steps down the street when he added, “I think the Dingses are staying up at the Wesley, in OB.”
I looked back, but he was already walking up the sidewalk.
The chief was crusty but digestible. Diana and I went into the first ice cream shop we came to and laid down our money. Black raspberry for me, and chocolate chip for the kid. Because I didn’t want chocolate hair, we ate in the shop, which, fortunately, had a good stock of paper napkins, since Diana was not too fastidious about her food and tended to chocolatize her face pretty well whenever encountering her favorite dessert.
When we were through and I had her scrubbed as clean as I was going to get her, I returned her to her backpack and headed for my next stop: Ben Krane’s office. It was as good a time as any to beard the lion in his den.
Krane Associates was housed in a white-fronted building just off Main Street. I didn’t know who the associates might be, but the business offered expertise in the law, real estate, estate planning, and other matters. Ben personally had his hand in all of these enterprises, and for all I knew, he might have had a whole team of experts working for him. When I went into the office, however, I was met by a single receptionist. According to the name card in front of her computer, she was Judith Gomes.
Judith gave me a pleasant, professional smile.
“Hi. May I help you? My, what a darling little girl!”
“My daughter, Diana. Yes, she is a cutie, if I do say so myself.”
“I’m sure you’re very proud of her! Now, how may I help you?”
I sat down. “My name is Jackson. I work for your boss. I want to talk with you about him and his work.”
Her smile disappeared faster than your lap when you stand.
— 13 —
Judith Gomes was instantly careful, almost hostile. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. . . .”
“Jackson. My friends call me J.W.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Jackson. I have nothing to say about Mr. Krane.”
I studied her face. Judith looked a little fragile behind her apparent anger. “Did he tell you to say that, or are you just being a loyal employee? If he told you to say it, you tell him that I’m no longer working for him. If he didn’t, then it’s you who may not be working for him.”
But Judith turned out to have more spunk than I had guessed. “I haven’t spoken with Mr. Krane, and I have no intention of speaking to you either. Please leave this office immediately.”
Is there anyone more valuable to a boss than a loyal secretary who will fend off the dogs and keep the family secrets?
I felt a little smile run across my face. “I think you should ask Ben for a raise,” I said. “Meanwhile, if you can get in touch with him, I suggest that you do that right now. He asked me to work for him this morning and gave me carte blanche to do things my own way, including talking to you and anybody else who works for him. You, naturally, don’t believe that, so why don’t you pick up that phone and get the word from the horse’s mouth.”
Her jaw was firm. “Mr. Krane is not in his office. I don’t know where he is. I’ll speak to him when he comes in.”
Feisty Judith. “He’s probably got a beeper on his belt like all the other businesspeople in the world,” I said. “Give him a buzz.”
She was stubborn. “I don’t think so, Mr. Jackson!”
I bounced Diana on my knee. She was cute. Playing with her and her brother was a more appealing prospect than tracking down an arsonist. “In that case,” I said to Judith Gomes, “when you finally do talk to Ben, tell him about our conversation and inform him that I’m not working for him anymore. Tell him I’ll return his check if he’s already mailed it.” I got out of the chair. “Good-bye. I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.” I started for the door.
“Wait.”
I paused and looked at her. Her brow was furrowed as she was pricked by the famous horns of a dilemma: in her case, whether to risk offending her boss by calling him, or risk offending him by not calling him. Her hand seemed to want to go to the phone on her desk, but . . .
I decided to help her out. “Look,” I said, “if he hasn’t told you about this deal with me, you’d be stupid to take my word for it. Be smart and call him. If he faults you for that, he’s more of an idiot than I think he is.”
“If you’re telling the truth, I would have heard from him already.” But the brow remained furrowed.
“We just made the deal. He probably didn’t figure I’d be snooping around here so soon. His mistake. Give him a call.”
Her fingers danced on the desk and then went to the phone. They tapped out some numbers and then put the phone down. “He’ll call back,” she said coldly.
Sure enough, a minute or two later the phone rang and she picked it up. She listened, then gave a brief and accurate account of our encounter in the office. She listened again, said good-bye, and put the phone down. She waved at the chair I’d just abandoned. “Please sit down, Mr. Jackson.”
“My friends call me J.W.” I sat down with Diana on my knee.
“I’m not sure we’re friends, Mr. Jackson, but I’ve been instructed to answer any questions you might have.”
I bounced Diana. She smiled. It was her first interrogation, but she wasn’t really paying attention to it. She was concentrating on the bouncing. I looked over her head at Judith Gomes.
I asked the questions and for a while Judith Gomes answered them:
She’d been working for him for six years. Yes, he was a good boss. He paid her well and never asked her to do anything illegal or even questionable. No, he didn’t have any enemies. Yes, he was an honest man. No, he never cheated anybody. Yes, he charged a lot for his summer rentals, but no one was forced to pay his prices; they could pay or rent elsewhere.
Saint Benjamin of Edgartown. I tried to tilt the halo.
“A lot of people will tell you he’s a slumlord whose buildings are hovels.”
She lifted her chin. “A lot of people are envious fools.” “You’ll have to admit that he’s not the most popular guy in town.”
“I never pay attention to gossip.�
�
“Maybe you should. Somebody seems to be burning down his houses. Who do you think that might be?”
“A madman. Somebody with a psychological problem.”
“Or maybe somebody with a grudge.”
“I can’t imagine who that might be. Mr. Krane is an honest businessman.”
The halo was secure.
I smiled down at Diana, then up at Judith Gomes. “I don’t know much about arson, but I do know that the owners of junky buildings sometimes burn them down for the insurance. How much insurance did Ben have on the three houses that have been torched?”
Her eyes flamed and her voice was almost a snarl. “What an awful thing to ask! How dare you! Mr. Krane would never do anything like that! You have an evil, nasty mind!”
I couldn’t argue the last, but I thought her no was louder than it needed to be. I put a little metal in my voice. “There’s a fire marshal on the island right now,” I said, “and he’s going to be interested in the insurance on those houses, too. If he finds out that Ben is making a bundle on these fires, he’s got the guns to give your boss a lot more grief than I can. I don’t work for the police, but if Ben had a motive for torching his own houses, I want to know about it right now. So how much insurance did he have?”
She stared at me, tight-lipped, then went to a file cabinet and came back with some papers. I reached for them and after a brief hesitation she gave them to me. Ben had the houses insured for more than I guessed they were worth. I pushed the papers back.
“He won’t lose any money because these places burned down,” I said.
“That’s what insurance is for, Mr. Jackson.” She returned the papers to the file cabinet and came back to her desk. “Those houses are rented to college students, who treat them like pigsties. They leave cigarettes lying around and plug boom boxes and God knows what else into electrical sockets. Mr. Krane would be a fool not to carry a lot of insurance, and I assure you that he is not a fool!”
“He may be too smart for his own good,” I said. “Insurance companies are quick to take a client’s money, but they’re pretty slow to pay it out if they think they’ve gotten ripped off. Has he collected anything yet?”
Vineyard Blues Page 8
