A Fatal Vineyard Season (8 page)

“You can find out if this Vegas man is working for him,” said Julia.

“Maybe. The Vegas boys are bad news all by themselves. They don't need any help from Mackenzie Reed.”

“Somebody is working for him,” said Julia bitterly. “We can't go on not knowing who it might be. We need help. Somebody is out there.”

I could imagine how she felt, and it may have been that
imagination that moved my tongue. “All right,” said my mouth, “I'll help you as best I can. There'll be some expenses.”

“Don't worry about the expenses,” said Julia. “Thank you.” The women exchanged glances.

I was irked with myself. “Don't thank me yet.” I took a slow sip of coffee. “I'll need names and telephone numbers of any lawyers the two of you have, and the PI outfit you hired out there, and I'll need to have both of you call them and tell them who I am so they'll talk to me.”

“I'm not sure this is necessary,” said Ivy. “It's probably just a waste of time and money. I'm not afraid of this Alexandro guy, and Mackenzie Reed's in prison, and maybe there's nobody else involved.”

Julia had apparently heard that before, but she had the Crandel stubbornness. “You may not be worried, Ivy, but I think you should be. I'm going to do this!”

Ivy gave her a thoughtful look, then shrugged, shook her head, and smiled. “All right, if it's that important to you.” Ivy glanced at her watch. “There's a three-hour time difference; we can make those calls as soon as people are up in L.A.”

“And do the same with anybody else you think I might be able to get information from,” I said.

“Maybe Buddy could help,” said Julia.

“Who's Buddy?” I asked.

“My cousin,” said Julia. “He's out there. He's working for an agency. He knows as much as we do about what's happened, and maybe he can help you find people who know more.”

“He and I dated,” said Ivy. “That's how I met Julia. Buddy and I broke up after a while, but we stayed friends. Okay, we'll phone Buddy, too. He knows lots of people out there.”

Julia went to a wall and took down a photograph that was hanging there. She brought it to me and pointed at a face. “There. That's Buddy.”

I looked at the face. It was a typical Crandel face, smooth and well boned. Smiling Buddy was standing beside smiling
Julia amid other smiling people who all looked Crandelish. I turned the photo over. It had been taken three years previously.

“That's my mom,” said Julia, pointing to a woman who looked like a slightly younger version of Betsy Crandel. “And that's Aunt Anna, Buddy's mom. Buddy and I were going out to Hollywood, and Mom wanted a last picture of the family all together. Every time all of us kids are together, she wants one of these pictures, just in case we're never together again. She must have dozens of them stored away in boxes!”

“You leave your mom alone,” said Ivy with a smile. “Besides, someday one of these pictures really will be the last one when you're all in the same place at the same time, and she'll have a picture of the historic event.”

“Three years ago was the last time you were all together?” I asked.

Julia nodded. “The last time. We try to get together here every summer, but for the last couple of years somebody's always been missing.” She pointed to young people in the photo. “My littlest brother is down in Washington sitting behind a desk in the Pentagon, and my sister, here, is in the Middle East now, working for the U.N. It's hard to coordinate all our vacations.”

Julia put the photo back on its hook, and I finished my coffee and put my cup on the tray.

“Make your calls out to the Coast,” I said. “I'll phone you about noon and get the names and addresses I need. And if I were you, I'd call Thornberry Security in Boston. Meanwhile, be careful.”

I went out into the bright September day, wishing my thoughts were half so crisp and clear.

I drove up Circuit Avenue, so named, I've been told, because a century before, in camp-meeting days, it had been part of a circuit around the tabernacle, and, it being not only midmorning but post–Labor Day, I found a parking spot without difficulty. It was right where I wanted it: a couple of slots down from the door to the office of Enterprise Management Corporation. I got out and tried the knob, but the door was still locked, so I walked up the street, got a
Globe,
and went back to the truck.

Circuit Avenue is a one-way street with diagonal parking, which causes a lot of traffic stops while people put on the brakes to wait for other people to back out of parking places. On the plus side for business owners, it allows for more cars to park near their establishments than would otherwise be the case; and for me it made for more comfortable spying, since I didn't have to screw my head around so much in order to keep an eye on the Enterprise Management Corporation door while simultaneously reading my paper.

The news was about the same as usual. I wonder if it ever changes. In our house, Zee gets the sports page and the crossword and I get the rest, but when I'm alone, I read the whole thing, or at least I skim it, from end to end. I was in the business section, reading about the problems of some computer outfit, when a woman came down the street, unlocked the Enterprise Management door, and went in.

I read some more and watched to see if any barn-sized men were going to show up and do some morning office
work. When none did, and I had finished the sports pages and noted that the Red Sox, out of the pennant race since June, were now on a winning streak linked, some writers were quick to suspect, to the players' upcoming winter contract negotiations, I got out and followed the woman through the door and upstairs.

On a closed door there the company name was written on opaque glass above the knob. There weren't any words asking me to Please Enter, but I did anyway.

Curtained windows looked out over Circuit Avenue. The windows were behind a none-too-young desk. Some file cabinets were against a wall beside a large, old-fashioned safe, and there was a table with some out-of-date magazines on it. Two chairs were in front of the desk and one behind it. In the one behind it was a woman reading a paperback romance novel.

On the cover of the novel was a picture of a woman with long blond hair and breasts about the size of her head that were bursting from a low-cut, white blouse. Her head was thrown back, her eyes were closed, and her mouth was open. She was being embraced by a muscular, bare-chested man with dark, curly locks and the face of a male model. Both of them looked a bit bored, I thought. The title of the book was
Love's Passionate
something-or-other. I couldn't make out the something-or-other because the woman's fingers covered part of the book cover.

The clothing and hair of the woman behind the desk were teetering on the brink of needing a washing, and her face was dull and sly. I thought it also carried a hint of a bruise on the left side. She turned down the corner of a page and closed the book, then looked at me without smiling.

“Hi,” I said, sitting down.

“What can I do for you?” Her voice gave no indication of interest.

“My name is John Appleseed,” I said tentatively. “I hope I've come to the right place.”

She stared at me, then said, “What place is that?”

I put a fawning smile on my face. “I'm thinking of opening a business in town. Nothing big, you understand. A souvenir shop just up the street.” I waved a vague hand in that direction. Another souvenir shop on Circuit Avenue was just what Oak Bluffs needed.

The woman waited and then said, “So?”

I turned my cap in my hands. “Well, I've been talking to some other merchants about doing business in town—you know, the sorts of problems that come up here, as they do in any town, of course, and I'm anxious to avoid them if I can, you understand. So before committing myself to this business opportunity I'm considering, I thought I'd do my best to take reasonable steps to minimize the possibility of having any unnecessary difficulties.”

She said nothing.

I tugged on an ear. “So, as you might guess, I made inquiries to my fellow entrepreneurs as to how I might best accomplish that and have been told that your corporation has been most successful in assuring the smooth operation of local firms.” I enlarged my smile and ran a hand across my brow. “So here I am, madam, to introduce myself and to discuss the possibility of doing business with your organization.”

“I'm just the secretary. I don't write contracts. You need to see the boss for that. You got a card?”

I touched various pockets. “Heavens, I don't think I do. How silly!”

She sighed, opened a drawer, and got out a pen and a pad of paper. “What was your name, again?”

“Appleseed. John Appleseed.”

“Address?”

I gave her the address of the house in Somerville where we'd lived long ago when I was young and my father was still alive and we'd vacation on the Vineyard when the bluefish were running.

“I have no address here on the island, you understand,
though of course I'll be living here if I decide to take that business opportunity, but for now . . . I came over on the early ferry this morning and will be going back this afternoon. Will it be possible, do you think, to meet . . . er . . . your boss before I leave? I've been told his name is . . .”

“Vegas. Alberto Vegas. You got a telephone number where he can reach you?”

I gave her our old Somerville number and said, “I won't be there until tonight, of course. Perhaps I can call you later today, before I have to leave? To possibly meet with Mr. Vegas?”

“He don't always come in.”

I produced a worried little laugh. “Well, then, perhaps you can help me. I'm afraid I don't even know your name, ha, ha . . .”

“My name's Sylvia. But I don't do any of this business stuff. Like I say, I'm just the secretary. He'll call you.”

“Dear me. I'm very anxious to meet him today, if possible.”

“Why?” asked Sylvia, suddenly narrowing her eyes. “It's fall. The tourists won't be thick again till next summer. What's the rush?”

“Business, Sylvia, business. I have an opportunity to purchase a shop and that opportunity may pass me by if I don't act immediately. I'm sure you understand such things. May I have your card?”

She hesitated, then opened a drawer and rummaged around until she came up with a card. I took it. It looked like a normal business card, with the title of the company, an address and a phone number, and the name Alberto Vegas. At the bottom of the card, enclosed with quotation marks, was the phrase “Good Fortune Is Good Planning.”

Cute.

I put the card in my pocket.

Just then there was a knock on the door and someone came into the room.

“Oh, it's you,” said Sylvia, looking past me.

“Yes,” said a voice I recognized. “I just came by to make my payment. I like to be on time.”

The voice approached the desk on my left and I looked at the file cabinets on my right.

“I'll give you your receipt,” said Sylvia, pulling one out of a desk drawer. A hand laid an envelope on the desk. It was a thick envelope.

“You'll want to count it, of course,” said the hand's owner.

From the corner of my eye I saw Sylvia give me a sour glance. “That won't be necessary, Mr. Francis. If there are any problems, we can straighten them out later.”

She scribbled out the receipt and gave it to Mr. Francis. As he bent to take it, he caught a glimpse of my face.

“Why, hello there, J.W. I didn't recognize you.”

I turned toward him and gave him my best nervous but friendly look.

“Well, hello, Eddie. Imagine meeting you here.” I put up a hand and shook his. We looked uneasily at each other.

“You know each other?” said Sylvia.

“Sure,” I said. “Eddie's pizza is the best on the island. Right, Eddie?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“You call him J.W., do you?” said Sylvia, speaking to him but looking at me.

“Initials stand for John Walker. But my friends all call me J.W.”

“Is that a fact?” said Sylvia.

“So that's what they stand for,” said Eddie. “I never knew.” He put the receipt in his pocket and edged toward the door. “Well, Mrs. Vegas, I got to get back to the shop. See you around, J.W.”

He went out.

I dangled my cap between my knees. “A nice fellow. I've known him for some time. Since before that kitchen fire that almost put him out of business last fall. He was lucky to
be open again in time for the summer season. He called you Mrs. Vegas. Are you—”

“Started in a gas stove, as I recall. A valve or something.”

“Yes. I read about it in the
Gazette.
I certainly couldn't afford any such interruption of my business. Did I tell you the name I have in mind? Appleseed's Arts and Souvenirs. What do you think of it? Has a nice ring, eh? It's a name people will remember and tell their friends about, don't you think?”

“Sure. You aren't a cop, are you?”

I pressed my knees together. “What? A policeman? Me? Of course not! Ha, ha. What an odd question. Good heavens. It's not that I don't like policemen, you understand, but . . . I mean, I'm a businessman . . .”

“Because if you're a cop, I want you to tell me right now.” Her face was almost fierce. “If you lie about it, you're entrapping.”

Ben Krane had been at work with his clients, apparently. The nervousness in my voice was not entirely feigned. “I assure you, Mrs. Vegas, that I am not!” I raised a trembling hand, as if under oath. “What a suggestion. I don't even like . . . that is . . .” I flicked an eye toward my wrist. “Oh, dear. How time flies. I have other errands to run, I'm afraid. Please tell Mr. Vegas of my visit, and that I will telephone you later today in hopes of seeing him before I have to go back to the mainland. Thank you for your time.”