A Deadly Vineyard Holiday (28 page)

“Which did the job, all right. So we've got motive. What about opportunity?”

“Ben is an international banker who travels all the time and has business contacts everywhere. He also knows people Barbara worked with when she was with the IRS. Wherever Cricket Callahan travels, Ben knows people who'll mail letters for him. No problem, then, having the letters follow Cricket around. The people who mail them probably don't even know what's in the envelopes. All they know is that Ben is a bigwig with good connections, so they're not surprised that he's corresponding with Prez and his family. And since the people who mail the letters really are innocent agents, the Secret Service has no reason to think they're involved, and probably won't ever catch up with them.”

“Don't be too sure of that,” said Spitz.

“I'm not too sure of any of this,” I said.

“Neither am I,” said Zee. “Ben Miller may have sent the letters, but we know he's not Shadow. Walt Pomerlieu owns the Volvo, so he's probably the driver in Burt Phillips's pictures, and the guy who planted the bugs and bombs and who killed Burt. But what's the tie-in between Walt Pomerlieu and Ben Miller?”

“The tie-in is that Walt and Ben are brothers-in-law. They married sisters. The first day I met him, Walt Pomerlieu told me that his wife's name is Maggie. He even showed me a picture of her and the kids. I didn't think much of it at the time. Just a picture of a plain-looking woman with big teeth. But when I was up at Barbara Miller's place I was introduced to her sister, Margaret, who's staying with her while Ben is overseas tending to his banks, or whatever it is that he does. Margaret looked like her sister, and I thought I'd seen her before. But the Maggie-is-Margaret idea didn't come to me until we knew that the Volvo and Walt Pomerlieu went together. As soon as I saw the picture Burt took of the Volvo, and remembered the one in Barbara's yard, I remembered the family photo that Walt had showed us, and a lot of things fell into place.”

“Let me see if I've got this right,” said Zee. “When Barbara lost her job and fell apart, Maggie and Walt were as worried about her and as mad at the president as Ben was. Being a head Secret Service guy, Walt knew all about the president's travel plans, and made sure Ben knew them, too, so the letters would always get through. Walt was also in the perfect position to keep the investigation of the letter-writer a little out of focus, just enough to keep Ben safe.”

“Right,” said Spitz. “But things unravel over the long haul. People make mistakes, or investigators get lucky, or somebody starts taking a new slant on things. The FBI and the Secret Service may be rivals, but they have common interests, too, including protecting the president and his family, and it wasn't too long into this letter-writing campaign that some people began to think the same thing J.W., here, thought: that maybe somebody in the Secret Service itself couldn't be trusted.”

“Spook types are professionally suspicious,” I said to Zee. “They automatically don't believe you. They don't disbelieve you, necessarily, but they don't believe you, either.”

“Are you like that, Jake?” asked Zee.

“No comment,” said Jake.

“Did you know that Maggie Pomerlieu and Barbara Miller are sisters?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, we noticed that. And we've noticed other things, too. For instance, we noticed that Ben Miller made business trips to countries a week or two before the president and Cricket got there, and it occurred to us that it might mean something, considering the hard time Barbara had after she left the IRS. Like maybe he left the letters with people to be mailed later to the president. And we knew that Ben Miller and Walt Pomerlieu have been close since they were kids together in prep school, even before they married sisters. The old-boy Yankee network rearing its famous head. The Intelligence-International Finance Society and Marching Band we know so well. Old, rich, honorable, patriotic families and all that.” He paused. “So that's why we filtered Joan and Ted into the Secret Service. We needed somebody to check things out from the inside. Since then we've had a lot of theories, but up till now we couldn't prove anything.”

“And now you can?” asked Zee.

“I'm not sure,” said Spitz.

I thought of old New England money and of my own relative poverty, and a vision of extortion appeared in my brain. I examined it for a while, and the more I looked at it, the more I liked it. There were dangers for sure, but the rewards justified chancing them. All I needed to do was be careful.

It was just before noon when I called Walt Pomerlieu from our house. There was a nip in his voice when he got on the phone.

“Mr. Jackson, I'm glad you called. Where is your young charge? We haven't heard from her or Karen since yesterday, and her parents are getting worried.”

“They're fine,” I said. “They've gone fishing. I'll be picking them up later.”

“Where are they fishing? I need to know where they are at all times, as I'm sure you can understand.”

I was sure I could. “They're absolutely safe,” I said. “They can radio in if they have any problems. I'd like to see you privately about another matter. I'm alone at home. Can you come by?”

“What's it about, Mr. Jackson?”

“This line may be secure at your end, but I'm not sure about my end. When you hear what I have to say, I think you'll agree it was best not to discuss it by phone. In fact, I think you'll agree that it's best not to discuss it with anyone but ourselves.”

“That sounds very mysterious, Mr. Jackson.”

“It has to do with the death of Burt Phillips,” I prodded.

He hesitated. Then, “All right. At your house, you say? I'm on my way.”

I was on the porch having the first beer of the day
and reading
Field and Stream
when he came down the driveway in one of the Secret Service's fleet of vehicles. He parked beside Zee's little Jeep, stepped out and looked around, then came up and rapped on the screen door. I told him to come in, and he did.

I put the magazine down on the table beside the chair, set my mug on the magazine, and got up to shake hands. “Care for a beer?” I asked. “Sam Adams. America's finest bottled brew.”

“Sure.”

I went into the kitchen and came out with a bottle and mug. He took them and filled the mug.

“Where are Cricket and Karen?”

I sat down again and waved him into another chair. “Fishing, like I told you. They're fine. Before we have our little talk, are you sure that your people found all of the bugs in this house? I don't think we'll want our conversation recorded anywhere.”

He sipped his beer and frowned. “The house is clean. What's this all about?”

“Photographs.”

They were in an envelope under the copy of
Field and Stream.
I handed them to him. “I've numbered them in sequence. They're most interesting if you look at them in the order they were taken.”

He looked through the first of them. “What are these?”

“They were in Burt Phillips's camera. He took them the day that he died.”

He flipped through the rest of the pictures, pausing so imperceptibly at the ones of himself that had I not been watching for the hesitation, I'd not have seen it. “Where did you get these? I personally checked out the film in Burt Phillips's camera. It was blank. He'd never used it.”

“I'll bet you checked it out personally. But you found unused film because I put a new roll in after I took this one out of Burt's camera. While he was down the road to Felix Neck, where he got himself killed.”

His eyes were hard. “You're in trouble,” he said. “You've interfered with a murder investigation.”

“I don't think I'm in trouble,” I said. “I think you're in trouble. You killed Burt Phillips.”

He glared. “You're mad.”

“I'm not even upset. What I am is poor. I just got married, and I'm going to need more income than I needed when I was single. I did a little research on you, Walt, and I know that you, being the rich guy you are, can afford to supplement my income a little. Don't worry, I'm not greedy. You can keep that set of pictures, by the way. I have the negatives.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about you being off duty when we were all away from the house and Burt got your picture coming out of our driveway in your classic Volvo. You drove in not knowing whether anybody'd be here or not. If we were here, you were just checking up, but if we weren't you finally had your chance to do in Cricket and get away with it. You knew which bed she'd be sleeping in, and you planted your trusty radio-detonated bomb right under it. Then you planted the bugs to be double sure you'd always know what was going on. But when you came out, there was poor old Burt, and he could ID you, so you had to get rid of him. How am I doing so far?”

He glared. “You're crazy.”

“Maybe. The plan was to kill Debby that night, after she was asleep. You told us to expect a late call from you, and you phoned on schedule. You expected to have me verify that Debby was in bed and you planned
to detonate the bomb while we were talking. It would give you and Ben Miller perfect alibis. When the bomb went off, Ben would be in Egypt and you would be on the phone, probably with witnesses, other agents who weren't in on your plans.

“But Debby wasn't home. She was spending the night at John Skye's house. So the plan went awry, and the next day, because Joan Lonergan took the call from my house and told you there was a problem with bugs, you had no choice but to have your agents sweep this place, and of course one of them found the bomb. Am I boring you? I hope not.”

I went on, and when I was done, he continued to glare, as if in amazement. “How many people have heard these incredible accusations? This is slander! You think you're poor now, but when my lawyers are through with you, you'll have nothing! Nothing!”

“Don't worry,” I said. “So far, this is just between you and me. That's why I waited to talk to you until after my wife went to work, and why I sent Debby and Karen off fishing. I don't think anybody else needs to know about this.” I paused, then added, “Yet.”

His eyes left me and looked out through the screen at the yard. His head turned and then came back, and his eyes returned to mine. “Yet? I warn you, Mr. Jackson, that I will tolerate no such scandalous allegations as yours to be attached to my name.”

I made a casual gesture. “If it really is slander, I imagine you and your lawyers will have me in jail or the poorhouse when you get done with me. Serve me right, too. People shouldn't go around saying nasty, untrue things about other people.” I drank more of my beer. “On the other hand, I'm pretty sure of myself. I guess the only way to check it out is for me to take my photos
and my ideas to, say, the FBI or the state police and have them look into things. If I'm as full of shit as you say I am, they'll give you a clean bill of health and I'll be dead meat for your lawyers. What do you think? Shall I do that?”

He thought for a while, studying me as he did. Then he said, “I don't think you realize how damaging your accusations will be, even when they're proven false, as they certainly will be. My reputation will be forever compromised, my honor smudged. Are you so immoral a person as to ruin an innocent man? I took you for something better.”

I gave him an admiring glance. “You're good. I'd probably be beginning to feel a little doubtful about myself right now if I hadn't gotten a description of you an hour or so ago from the guy who waited on you down at the photo shop yesterday, when you tried to pick up my film. It was you, all right, which means that you're the guy who bugged this house in the first place. You're half of the letter-writing team, Walt, and your brother-in-law is the other half.”

He got up. “Do you mind if I look through your house? I know you said we'd be meeting in private, but you'll forgive me for not trusting you completely. I'm alone, and I'd like to be sure you are, too.”

I waved toward the living room door. “Take a look. I'll be right here.”

He went into the house, and I waited until he came out again. Hands in his pockets, he leaned a shoulder against the door frame.

“It seems we are indeed by ourselves,” he said. “So. How much will it cost me to buy your silence in this matter? I don't care to risk an official investigation that would inevitably harm my career and my family's reputation,
even though in the end I'd be found innocent of any wrongdoing. What's your price, Mr. Jackson?”

“I had an annual salary supplement in mind, not a lump sum.”

“And that supplement would be what?”

I told him, and he gave a faint smile.

“That could add up over the years, Mr. Jackson.”

“As I told you, I've done a little research about your family and its finances. You can afford me. I'm not being greedy.”

“But what's to prevent you from becoming so in the future, Mr. Jackson?”

“Call me J.W. All my friends do, and I think we should consider each other friends, don't you, Walt?”

“All right, J.W. What's to keep you from becoming greedy in the future?”

“You have my word, Walt. I'm not interested in being rich. I like the sort of life I lead right now.”

He stood away from the door and picked up his mug of beer. “Look at it my way, J.W. You'll have your story and the negatives to back it up, and you'll be able to hand them to the FBI or whoever any time you want to. And what's to stop you?”

“The annual supplement. If I talk, the money stops. Believe me, that's ample motive for keeping what I know to myself.” I smiled.

“And will your wife feel the same way? Or will she want more? I recall the old saying that men cannot resist beauty and women cannot resist money.”