A Fatal Vineyard Season (15 page)

“What do you call it?”

“If I could prove anything, I'd call it extortion. But so far, I can't.”

“Last year Eddie Francis wasn't signed up and had a kitchen fire. Now he's signed up. Pete Warner didn't sign up, and last night his house burned down. Larry Curtis stood up to Alexandro and got himself beaten to a pulp. The same thing almost happened to me. How much proof do you need?”

He raised a brow. “You willing to testify under oath that Alexandro Vegas attacked you? If you are, I'll get a warrant right now and arrest him.

“No. I didn't see who it was. But I know it was him.”

“You don't know anything. And neither do I. Yet.”

“Yet?”

“We're talking to all of the merchants and businessmen in town. Maybe some of them will work with us. But Alberto is slick. He never does anything illegal.”

“Extortion is sure as hell illegal.”

“Yeah, but he never threatens anybody. He goes into a store or office and tries to get the people who run the business to buy policies with his company. If they don't buy, he wishes them good luck, says he hopes they'll change their minds and that they won't mind if he drops by again sometime, and he leaves. Sometimes Alexandro goes with him, but he never says anything. He just stands there while Alberto talks and then leaves with him.”

“Couldn't you argue that having Alexandro there is an implied threat?”

The chief smiled a chilly smile. “Try that in court and see how far you get.”

I thought he was right, but I pushed the idea anyway. “What if some customer would testify that the sight of
Alexandro and the street gossip about what happens to people who don't do business with Alberto frightened him into signing up with Enterprise Management?”

The chief shrugged. “I'm no lawyer, but I don't think just having somebody say he was scared would be enough. I think there has to be an overt threat. And so far, there hasn't been.”

“At least none that anybody'll talk about. And the next step in the master plan, if you're right about Alberto and Alexandro, is that somebody's store catches on fire, or somebody gets sugar dumped in the gas tanks of his equipment, or the place is vandalized.”

The chief nodded. “Yeah. And a couple of days later Alberto shows up again and says how sorry he is about the accident and gives them another chance to buy a policy from him. If they do, fine; if they don't, well, sometimes later on there's another accident.” Then, before I could say what came to my mind, the chief waved a forefinger at me and went on, “But there isn't always an accident. Sometimes after somebody says no, nothing happens to them at all.”

Sly Alberto. If there was always an accident after a failed attempt to sell a policy, the obvious pattern might persuade a judge or jury that there was, indeed, an extortion racket going on. But if accidents only happened sometimes, it would be a hard case to make.

“Who does the dirty work after somebody says no?” I asked.

“Who knows? Alexandro, I'd guess. But so far nobody's ever caught him at it.”

“Last night whoever torched Pete Warner's place left plenty of evidence that it wasn't an accident.”

“I'm not surprised. The fire was supposed to be instructive. Some people who didn't get the picture before will get it now. It'll make Alberto's selling job easier.”

“Maybe you can slip a mole into Alberto's operation. Get him from the inside.”

“You read too many spy novels. Alberto keeps his cards close to his chest. His operation, as you call it, consists of him and his brother and Ben Krane. As far as I know, he doesn't even tell his wife or his other women anything about his business, and I doubt if Ben Krane wants to know any more than he has to, because he can never be held responsible for what he doesn't know. There's no way you can slip an informant into a circle as small as Alberto's.”

“I don't read spy novels,” I said. “Is Alberto doing business on other parts of the island, too?”

“I believe he's been seen in Vineyard Haven and West Tisbury.”

“He must be a busy man.”

“He's ambitious.”

“Everybody's got a weakness. What's his?”

The chief thought for a moment, then said, “Women? A taste for the good life? Greed? He likes to take that boat of his out to the Dump to chase swordfish. That's why she's moored here right now instead of up in OB, by the way. Closer to the swordfishing grounds.”

I had another thought. “Who does he care about? How about his mother?”

The chief shook his head. “He's living in a big house, she's living in the same dump she's always lived in. I don't think she's high on his list of things that are important.”

“All right, how about his wife?”

“I don't think Alberto cares about anybody.”

“Including Alexandro?”

“Including Alexandro. Alexandro is just another tool to Alberto. Alberto doesn't care about anything or anyone but himself.”

It is a truism that if you can find out what a person values, you can get to that person. I remembered looking into Alberto's dead eyes and thought the chief was right about him. Alberto didn't care about anything or anybody. That made him the most dangerous kind of person there is.

I got up. “Well, thanks for the chat, Chief.”

He stayed in his chair. “You stay out of this, J.W. You've already got yourself a busted wing for your trouble, and you're lucky it wasn't worse. You leave the Vegas boys to the authorities. Sooner or later they'll make a mistake and we'll nail them.”

“Wise advice.” And it was. But I didn't plan on taking it.

I got into the Land Cruiser and drove back to Oak Bluffs. The people in the Crandel house should have been up by now, and I wanted to talk to Cousin Buddy.

Fishermen were on the big bridge and out on the jetties on either side of the channel. All hoping for a big bass, I guessed, and none of them waiting for the Derby to start. A lot of whoppers had been caught there, and a lot more would be, since the bass were making a fine comeback after years of being pretty scarce in island waters.

The downside of this comeback was that as the bass were returning, the bluefish seemed to be getting rarer, giving rise once again to the theory that the fish came and went in alternate cycles. Since I was primarily a bluefish fisherman, this gave cause for pause. Would a time come when I would be obliged to hunt the elusive bass if I wanted to keep on fishing? It seemed possible.

I thought about Alberto Vegas being a fisherman. According to the chief, Alberto took the
Invictus
down to the Dump south of Noman's Land for swordfish. Did he fish the shoals and surf-cast for bass and bluefish, too? As a rule, the fisherpeople I knew were pretty friendly folk, but of course there were a few bad apples among them as there are in all groups. It was not too surprising that dead-eyed Alberto liked to wet a line.

Of course his work might interfere with his fishing. He seemed pretty busy with his business activities, spreading his interests out over the island as he was.

I thought of the ifs that had gotten me involved with him and his brother. If not for the ifs, I'd not know that the Vegas boys were even alive, but the ifs had intruded, and as
they often do, they had changed everything. I'd now be doing something else if I didn't work for Stanley Crandel, if the faucet hadn't needed replacing, if I hadn't met Ivy and Julia, if there had been no California stalker, if Alexandro hadn't hated the two women on sight, if he hadn't showed up on the front lawn the next morning, and if I hadn't come out of the house at that moment. If, if, if. And there were, of course, earlier ifs: if the Vegas boys had had a decent father, if they hadn't gone to jail, if this, if that. A million ifs.

And now there would be more ifs, and it would only be much later that anyone would know their significance.

Off to my right, the waters of Nantucket Sound rolled across to the distant shore of Cape Cod, beautiful and indifferent to human cares. When I got to East Chop, the eastern light was flooding the front of the Crandel house, and the car belonging to the two Thornberry agents was in the driveway. I parked at the curb and went to the door and knocked. I could feel an eye at the peephole before the door opened. Jack Harley stepped back and I went in.

“I hear you have a new guest,” I said.

“Word gets around. What the hell happened to you?”

Julia Crandel stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Oh, hi! Come and have some coffee. I want you to meet my cousin Buddy.”

“Just the man I want to see,” I said. She disappeared back into the kitchen.

I told Harley why I had my arm in a sling.

“Jesus,” he said. “Alexandro Vegas?”

“I'm not sure, but he's on the top of my suspect list. You have any problems?”

“Pretty quiet. You've had problems enough for all of us.”

“Yeah. Any news from the Coast?”

“Nobody's told me anything.”

The closemouthed type. I went into the kitchen.

Ivy, Julia, and a young man were sitting at a table that held the remains of breakfast. The man was sleek and
handsome, with coffee-colored skin and short, straight, black hair. He looked as though he spent time under a tanning machine, although that didn't seem to make much sense considering his heritage and that he lived in California, where he could get all the natural sun he might want.

“Buddy, this is Mr. Jackson,” said Julia. “Mr. Jackson, this is my cousin Buddy Crandel. He just got in from Los Angeles. Goodness, what happened to you?”

“Call me J.W.,” I said to Cousin Buddy, shaking his hand. He had dark, intelligent eyes and the firm grip of a man who did a lot of professional handshaking.

“And I'm just Buddy,” he said, flashing a white smile. “Julia and Ivy have told me what a help you've been to them. I appreciate it.”

“What happened to your arm? asked Julia with wide eyes.

“An accident. Nothing serious.” It didn't seem the moment for true confessions, since I had no sense of Buddy Crandel's place in the scheme of things.

“Coffee?” asked Ivy, reaching for the pot. She seemed a bit edgy.

“Thanks. Black.” I sat in a fourth chair and smiled at Buddy. “You just got in last night, I hear.”

“Yes. Who told you?”

“It's a small island.”

He put on a smile. “I guess I should know that. I've been coming here since I was a kid. Still . . .”

“My source isn't a secret. There are a lot of cops in town and they're keeping an eye on things. One of them told me you'd flown in. I'm glad you did. I tried to call you out there, but all I got was your machine.”

“Well, here I am. When I found out these two were here by themselves and were being hassled, I came right out! It's maddening that they can't just be left alone!” His eyes flashed with an odd light.

“How'd you know they were being hassled?”

“I told him,” said Julia, “when I phoned to tell him you wanted to talk with him.”

“I didn't wait a second. I caught the first plane east.”

I wondered who had appointed him their caretaker. He didn't look like the type who could stand up to real trouble, but you can never tell.

“Well, since you're here,” I said, “I'd like to have you tell me what you can about that bad business out on the coast.”

He spread his hands. “I'm afraid I can't help you. I don't know anything about it, really, except that it's scary.”

“Sometimes people know things they don't know they know.” I looked at the two women. “We can talk somewhere privately, if you'd prefer.”

They exchanged quick glances, and Julia started to get up. But Ivy said, “No. I . . . we . . . want to hear whatever you say.”

Julia opened her mouth, then closed it and sat back down.

I hesitated, then looked back at Buddy. “What I'm trying to find out is whether you know of anybody who might have had a reason to kill Dawn Dawson or might want to harm Ivy.”

Ivy made a small wordless sound, and Buddy frowned. “What do you mean? Mackenzie Reed killed Dawn.”

“But suppose he didn't? He says he didn't, and his lawyer says he didn't.”

Buddy tilted his head. One of his hands held his coffee cup about halfway to his lips. He put the cup down. “The jury found him guilty. There was never any question about it. If anybody was ever guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt, it's Mackenzie Reed.”

“Somebody is still sending letters to Ivy.”

“I know! Somehow Reed is smuggling them out of prison! I don't know how, but it has to be him.”

“Maybe. Probably, even. But suppose he isn't the killer. Suppose he's telling the truth about going into the apartment
and finding Dawn Dawson already dead. If he didn't do it, it means that somebody else did. You were dating Dawn when it happened, and you dated Ivy before that, and you know a lot of the same people. You work in the movie business out there. Was there anyone you know who might have had it in for Dawn? Or for Ivy? Some of the people I've met in that racket can be pretty spiteful.”

“The police asked me that, but I didn't know anybody who might have had a reason to hate Dawn or Ivy. Gossip runs like a river out there, and I think I'd have heard something if there was anything to hear. Besides, Dawn never mentioned any problems with anybody. She didn't have any enemies, and the only one Ivy had was that crazy Mackenzie Reed. And he's the one who did it!”

“How long did you date Ivy before you started dating Dawn Dawson?”

Buddy glanced at Ivy, who looked back at him with great, dark, enigmatic eyes.

He shrugged. “In California people date, then stop, then date other people. Ivy and I dated pretty seriously for a while, then we decided not to do that anymore. When we finally split up, it wasn't a big deal for either one of us, was it, Ivy?”