A Fatal Vineyard Season (22 page)

I stuck the pistol in a pocket and phoned Zee.

“We're coming home,” she said immediately. “I don't
want you to be over there alone when Elmer comes. We're catching an afternoon boat.”

The very last thing I wanted.

“No,” I said in my firmest voice. “You and the kids stay there. It'll be a lot safer.”

“We're coming.”

“No. Your folks' place is a lot sturdier than ours. I want you all over there.”

But Zee was not one to take orders. From me or anyone else.

“I'll call you when we get to Vineyard Haven, Jefferson. It's no problem getting from here to the island; the only problem is getting from the island to the mainland. According to the news, the Vineyard standby line is already out of sight, and there are already some fights.”

That was no doubt true. Tourists caught on islands when big storms are brewing have sudden, strong desires to be on bigger hunks of land, and they can get testy when they discover that ferryboats can carry only so many cars and can make only so many runs a day, no matter what disaster seems pending.

But I knew Zee, so I was ready for her argument. I also knew I didn't want her and our children over here with both Alexandro and Elmer on the prowl. The thought gave me chills. There are times in life that call for lies. This seemed to be one of them.

“No,” I said. “Listen, sweets, I called to tell you I've screwed everything here down as tight as I can, and I've got reservations on the last boat tonight to Woods Hole. Do you understand? I got them through the chief. He's a cop. He's got pull. I'm bringing the cats, and I'll drive to your folks' place from there. I should get to Fall River in the small hours. I want all of us to be together tomorrow if Elmer actually does come this way. That's what I've been trying to tell you. I don't want you coming here, because I'm going there!”

“You're coming over here?” A note of doubt was in her
voice, and no wonder. No other storm had ever sent me to the mainland.

“It's just a fluke,” I said. “I was talking to the chief, and he just happened to have this ticket. One of his people was going over to Barnstable on some kind of business, but the meeting was canceled because of the storm, so I took the ticket. I decided I'd rather have all of us there than all of us here.”

“Well . . .”

“Tell your mom to expect an extra mouth for breakfast. And buy some cat food.” I thought the reference to Oliver Underfoot and Velcro gave a nice credibility to my story.

“She'll be happy to see you. So will Dad.” In spite of the cat reference, Zee was hearing something in my voice that I didn't want her to hear. Wives are like that, and most of the time I think it's fine. This time I didn't.

“I love you,” I said, using an ancient ploy of distraction. “Kiss the kids for me, and tell them the cats and I will see them in the morning. I'll see you earlier. We can lock your bedroom door, can't we?”

We'd been apart for days, and there was no real reason for her to think I was lying. So she laid aside her intuitions.

“I love you, too,” she said. “I'll be waiting for you to get here! I miss you in my bed!”

“Me, too.”

Betrayed by love, she rang off. I hung up and put my head in my hands. Zee did not take to being protected. I just hoped that all of tomorrow's ferry runs would be canceled. Otherwise, when I didn't show up in the wee hours, and she phoned and found me home, she would be on the first boat to the island, a child under each arm, fire in her eyes, me in her sights.

Zee, the black panther.

Me, the lying father of her cubs.

But I'd meet that problem when it came. Meanwhile, all I had to worry about was myself.

I turned on our little TV set, which had come to the house as part of Zee's dowry. The Weather Channel was sharply focused on Elmer, who was definitely headed our way at a goodly clip, with winds well over a hundred miles an hour. Hurricane watches had been abandoned along the southern Atlantic Coast and had been replaced by warnings to the north, with New England now the odds-on-favorite spot for the winds to hit the mainland. I checked a couple of Boston channels, and they, too, were full of news about the storm and advice to coastal communities to evacuate low-lying areas.

The ancient hunting camp that my father and I had slowly transformed over the years into a year-round house was built low to the ground and had weathered nearly a century of storms. Although it was old and drafty, I had no reason to think that this hurricane would do it in any more than past hurricanes had done. The winds might uproot our gardens and knock down some of our trees, or even rip off some shingles from the roof and blow out some windows, but the next day, when the skies were blue again, the house would still be standing, and looking not unlike it had looked before. I was glad, though, that we weren't nearer the water, for storm tides are dangerous. When great winds work the great waters, great destruction can ensue.

But Alexandro could wreak great destruction regardless of how far my house and I were from the water, and no one knew where he was. While I considered these facts, the phone rang and things got even worse.

It was Lisa Goldman. “J.W? Do you happen to know where that Mills guy and Ivy Holiday are?”

I felt a little chill. “No. Where are they supposed to be?”

“We just got a call from Julia Crandel. Ivy Holiday and Mills took Mills's car to go down to South Beach and see if the surf was up yet, and they haven't come back. They were supposed to be home for lunch. Julia and Mills's partner are worried.”

I said the first word that came to mind. “Alexandro?”

“Hell, I don't know. They haven't even been gone long enough for us to put out an official missing-person's bulletin, and it may be nothing at all. Probably they drove to Gay Head or something and just didn't bother to phone in. But things being what they are, I'm putting out a call for people to be on the lookout for them.”

“Have you checked Alexandro's house?”

“Nobody home. Even that woman of his is gone. And I've got no good excuse for a search warrant.”

“How about Alberto's place?”

“Ditto. He and his wife are at his office, putting plywood on the windows. Besides, this doesn't smell like Alberto's work. He may beat up his wife and girlfriends, but kidnapping isn't his game. Too dangerous. He's smart. He wants to be rich and live long.”

I thought of Alexandro's hatred and lust. It wouldn't be too dangerous for him. And he wasn't smart.

“I've got people looking, and I've called the other island police, but everybody's pretty busy getting ready for the storm,” said Lisa. “There may be nothing to this, but keep your eyes open. I don't like the way it feels.”

I didn't either.

I got my lockpicks and drove to Oak Bluffs. How many times had I made that trip in the last week? A thousand?

I drove to the development where Alexandro lived. There, beside the road leading to his house, was the same parked car that had been there before. The West Tisbury cop inside had finished his newspaper and was reading a paperback novel. I parked in front of him and walked back. He looked at me and I looked at him. After a bit of this, he rolled down his window.

I told him who I was and who he was and asked him how Lisa Goldman knew that Alexandro had disappeared.

“How should I know?” he asked, not sure what I had to do with things. I told him, and then he was friendlier. “Oh,
yeah. I hear Vegas gave you that arm. Well, he came home last night and parked that big black Caddy of his in the driveway. The guy who was here ran out of coffee about midnight and nodded off about two. When he woke up an hour later, Vegas's car was gone, and nobody's seen it or him since.”

“Maybe he's in the house. Anybody go in and find out?”

“We got no search warrant and no way to get one since nobody's got anything on him.” He sounded disgusted.

“Anybody knock on the door?”

“Yeah. Me. Nobody home. The dame who lives there with him pulled out at dawn. The guy who followed her says she went home to her folks up in Chilmark. Like I said, the place is empty now, but I'm going to sit here and watch it anyway, in case I'm wrong or in case somebody comes back from wherever they are.”

I guessed that the woman didn't want to be alone when the storm hit, and I recalled the saying that “home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

The cop looked tired. I thought he was mad at whoever had dozed off.

“I'm going to bang on the door,” I said. “If Alexandro's hiding in there, I'd like to know it.”

“Go to it. But if he is in there, he may decide to break your other arm.”

I drove to the house and knocked on the door. The cop had been right; the place did have that empty feeling about it. I knocked hard a couple more times. Nothing.

I drove away, waving at the cop as I passed. I took a left onto County Road, another left onto Barnes Road, and another onto the road that led toward the back of Alexandro's house. I parked again behind the empty summer house where I'd parked before and went through the woods until I came to Alexandro's backyard.

It was still cluttered and unkempt. I watched the
windows for a while, then crossed the yard and banged on the back door.

Silence.

I tried the knob. Locked. I took out my picks and was inside in less than a minute. I was getting better at picking, and the lock was an easy one. Why did people put such cheap locks on even expensive houses?

I stood with my back to the door and listened. I heard nothing but the ticking of a clock.

I was in a mudroom behind the kitchen. It was dirty and cluttered with boots and stray gear. In one corner was a five-gallon can half-filled with gasoline. I went into the kitchen. Dirty dishes were on the counters and the sour smell of old food filled the air. I went through the whole house, careful not to touch anything. No one was there.

I decided to do some more looking.

There was no sign that the house's inhabitants had much knowledge of brooms or other cleaning materials or were inclined to put things away once they'd used them. Maybe the Vegases were related to the Snopes and the Beans.

But I was soon glad that Alexandro and his woman were slobs, because twenty minutes after I started poking around, I found what I'd hoped to find, amid the other rubbish in a basement workroom: some remnants of canvas, a role of waxed twine, and some nylon strapping. Alexandro wasn't smart enough or neat enough to get rid of the materials he'd used to make the bags he'd slapped over Larry Curtis's head and then over mine. It might not be evidence that would hold up in court, but it was enough for me to know for sure that Alexandro was responsible for my broken arm and the attack on Larry Curtis.

I went upstairs and out into the mudroom. There I paused and looked at the can of gasoline. I even put out a hand toward it. But then I went on out the back door the way I'd come in, wiped away any fingerprints I might have left on the doorknob, and walked back to my car.

After Joshua had been born, Zee and I, as nervous, new, amateur parents, had bought ourselves a cellular phone that we carried around in whichever car was away from home. We almost never used it, but somehow it made us feel good to have it, especially when we and the tots were out on the distant beaches of Chappy, far from Dr. Spock and other folk who knew more about babies than we did. No crisis had ever induced us to use the phone to call our pediatrician, but one never knew, so the phone was always with us.

And it was with me now.

I phoned the Crandel house. Harley answered immediately. I identified myself and said, “I hear that your partner and Ivy went off to watch the waves. Are they back yet?”

“No.”

“When did they leave the house?”

“Three hours ago. They should have been back by now.”

“Did you see them leave?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see a black Caddie about the same time?”

After a short silence, he said, “Yeah. It came from up the street. What—?”

But I'd hung up.

I phoned Alberto's house. An answering machine replied. I left no message, but instead called the offices of Enterprise Management Corporation. This time I got a human being, such as she was: Sylvia Vegas. I told her who I was and said that I wanted to talk to Alberto.

She called me a seven-letter word. I said again that I wanted to talk to Alberto. Better yet, that I wanted to see him.

“Well, you better hope that he don't see you. You do and he's liable to reach down your throat, grab you by the balls, and turn you inside out!”

I thought it possible that he could actually do that. “I want to talk with him.”

“Well, that's too damned bad. He don't want to talk to you! He's working.”

My voice felt hot. “You tell Alberto that his little brother has probably kidnapped two people, and that they're all missing. Tell him that! And tell him he'd better start working with the cops before Alexandro kills somebody!”

“Go fuck yourself,” she shouted. But she hesitated a moment before slamming the phone down.

As I drove toward Edgartown, the sleeping wind was beginning to wake and stir the trees. I turned on the radio and heard the latest about Elmer. He was hurrying north, picking up speed.

The parking lots for Al's Package Store and the A & P were jammed with cars, as their drivers stripped the shelves of booze, food, water, batteries, candles, Sterno fuel, and whatever else they thought they might need if the electricity went off for a few days. Such raids on stores always occurred before big storms. I doubted, for instance, if any portable generators were still for sale on the island. If so, their sellers were no doubt getting good prices. It's a rare disaster that's bad for everybody; someone usually profits by it. Liquor stores do well whatever happens: if the news is good, their customers buy to celebrate; if it's bad, they buy to mourn. Because of this, some folks believe that a liquor store is the most perfect of businesses.