Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (18 page)

He went to the
sink and washed the flour from his hands while I poured the straw gold liquid
into the flutes, careful not to let it boil over the top.

J.L. dried his
hands and took a glass. He held it up to the light. "Look at the tiny
bubbles. Have you ever seen any this small?" I admitted I hadn't.
"The smaller they are, the better the champagne."

"I've heard
that." Smelling the yeasty nose exploding from the glass, I said,
"But the proof is in the tasting."

J.L. nodded and
grinned.

The nose turned
quickly to a damp straw smell, an indication of old age. Sipping the wine, I
found it dry with a nutty, rich flavor and a good finish. "Well, you're
right so far with the tiny bubble theory. This is excellent champagne."

The smile across
J.L.'s face indicated my approval meant a lot to him. "1904 Moet &
Chandon,” he said, as my mouth fell open. "The last time I opened a
bottle, I peeked at my notes, was September, 1967." He held his glass
toward me. "It's my pleasure."

There wasn't
much for me to say except thank you.

"By the
way,” J.L. said, setting the champagne flute down on the table. "I forgot
to ask, why did you call tonight? You find out something?"

Making a
decision not to ruin the moment, I said, "Let's enjoy the wine and pasta.
After dinner we'll discuss business. This is too good to spoil."

J.L. looked at
me with a strange expression. We cut the pasta dough into fettuccine.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

After carefully
cutting the dough into long, thin fettuccine, we laid it gently on a clean
towel to dry, then went down into the cellar to select a dinner wine. J.L.
seemed to be seeking a particular bottle, going through several of the dusty,
musty bins.

"I think,”
he said, holding up a bottle so covered with dust that the label was unreadable,
"To have great Italian food and drink anything other than Italian wine
would be sacrilegious, don't you?"

"If you
have anything not wrapped in a straw basket,” I offered, still amazed at all
the old wine in the cellar.

J.L. put the
bottle back in its resting-place and moved to another bin. "Here,” he said
excitedly. "Here's what I'm looking for." He gently lifted a dark
bottle and set it carefully on a table. "This is a Brunello di Montalcino,
from the Siena hills of the Tuscany area. It's made by the Biondi Santi
family." J.L. stepped back and looked at the bottle. "They leave it
on the wood for five years."

Brunello wines
were not my forte. They had always been too rare and too expensive for me to
indulge in. "What's the vintage?" I asked, unable to see the label.

J.L. took a
cloth rag and carefully wiped the bottle clean without moving it from the
table. "Nineteen forty-five. I'll be willing to bet it's still a baby.
They often take fifty years of aging in the bottle before reaching their peak.
We must decant it now and let it breathe as long as we can before dinner."

He poured the
wine with the aid of a candle, leaving a good two inches of sediment in the
bottle. We went back upstairs, carrying the decanted wine, and started the water
boiling to cook the pasta.

While J.L. prepared
his sauce, I talked with Kathleen, who appeared to be as healthy as anyone
else, only I knew she wasn't. She wanted to know if I planned to return to
Rockland after this mess with the murders was finished. I said I hoped so,
because this was such wonderful country. Complementing her on the beautiful
table caused her to blush.

"The sauce
is just about ready,” J.L. announced from the kitchen. "By the time Jay
pours the dinner wine, it will be."

Soon J.L.
entered the room. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Fettuccine Verdi con
Gamberetti."

It was
delicious. A green, spinach pasta with shrimp in a heavy cream, lots of milled
pepper, garlic, and rich, heart-stopping butter.

J.L. was right,
the Brunello was astounding. An intense ruby-red color with orange tints
indicating the age. Dry and tannic, with a warm, robust, and lively taste which
was mellow and velvet on the mouth. Finally, an aftertaste lasting forever.

"Well, Mr.
Chamberlain, you have once again made an humble man feel as if he's dined with
royalty." I lifted my glass.

"It's one
of our favorite meals,” Kathleen spoke up, smiling. "Although, I must
admit, the wine list does improve when you come to dinner, Jay."

Watching her, I
remembered how little she ate the last time. Tonight she ate what was on her
plate and drank an entire glass of the luscious Brunello.

Soon after
dinner, Kathleen excused herself, saying she was tired. "I know you two
want to discuss business. I'm going to bed. Good night, Jay. Do come
again."

J.L. escorted
Kathleen upstairs. Sipping the Brunello, I was amazed as it got better with
each taste.

"Probably
should have opened it yesterday,” J.L. suddenly said, from behind me.
"Some of the younger vintages are reputed to need twenty-four hours of
breathing to fully open.

"It's an
amazing wine." I held the opaque liquid up to a candle. "Thanks for
sharing this with me."

"I'm
enjoying your appreciation. In this part of the country it is a rare occurrence
to meet someone with a knowledge of wine. It has been several years since we've
opened some good bottles. Now,” he said, beaming. "I have some old cognac
for us to try. Did you bring any of those big cigars of yours?"

"I'm never
without them."

"Good.
Let's get the bottle and go up on the deck. You can tell me what's on your
mind."

Following J.L.
up to the big square deck on the roof of Owl's Head, I found the view even
better than imagined. Smaller trees to the south and east did not obstruct the
view. Sparkling like tiny diamonds, lights twinkled on Vinal Haven and Isle Au
Haut. To the south, Tenant's Harbor and Port Clyde blinked like beacons on a
dark sea. The sky was clear and the stars seemed so close that you could reach
up and pluck one from among the billions.

We were silent
for awhile. Then J.L. said quietly, "It is nice, isn't it?"

Sitting back in
the Adirondack chair and propping my feet up on the railing, I said,
"Truly, J.L. I'd probably spend all my time on this balcony if I lived at
Owl's Head."

"Kathleen
and I do, every spare moment, when the weather is right." He looked far
out to sea.

I knew he was
thinking about death. "Tell me about the cognac?" I asked, hoping to
lighten the moment.

"Ah,” he
said, holding up the bottle. "I think you'll enjoy this. It's fifty years
old...” He paused to see if I got the implication.

Sitting up in
the chair, I asked, "You mean it's a fifty year old cognac, or you've had
it fifty years?"

"Right on
both counts,” he said, delighted. "Oh, it's been in the cellar longer than
fifty years, but the notes I have say it was 'early-landed' in London, kept in
barrel by customs for fifty years before being bought by my namesake, who
bottled and shipped it to this cellar."

"Amazing,"
was all I could think of to say.

The pale old
cognac was gentle, exquisite, and faintly sweet with a finesse to please the
gods. To light a cigar would interfere with the delicate nuances of the aroma.
But then...

"So what's
on your mind?" J.L. asked after we sipped on the wine for awhile.

Rolling the
cigar between my fingers, I watched the glowing end turn to ash. "Guy Robbins
called today. He checked into Sandy and Nat's financial situation. It turns out
they are broke. Sandy paid Guy five hundred thousand cash for an art collection
he was handling in an estate sale. She could have gotten that money from many
different places. Still..."

Chamberlain
sniffed the cognac and didn't say anything.

"The Hansa
Jet was chartered by a young woman in Houston, Texas. The crew landed in New
Orleans, where the Kent collection was off-loaded. The passenger remained
aboard, flew back to Houston with them.

J.L. twirled the
brown liquid around in the glass, looked up into the starlit sky.
"Anastasio's trying to set her up. He is aware of their finances, and flew
the collection to where Sandy is, will probably plant the gun used in the
shootings, also."

Breathing
deeply, I was relieved Chamberlain had arrived at that conclusion.

"Jay,” he
said, standing up and leaning on a rail. "What's his motive?"

"That's the
problem. I don't have a clue."

A light wind
whispered through the trees. Far out to sea, on the dim horizon, a ship worked
its way south against the Gulf Stream. An owl hooted in the distance. A car
horn blew far away. Silence settled in on the roof of Owl's Head, broken only
by the crackle of cigars burning Connecticut seed wrapper.

"Have you
thought about Sandy being our killer?" J.L. asked softly.

It was a fair
question. One which I had contemplated more than once.

"Why would
she hire me? You think maybe it was a front? Could be possible." Pausing,
I let the hard facts work their way through my thoughts. "Seems we have
limited possibilities. Anastasio, whose motive we know not, or Sandy, who would
have had to hate her brother an awful lot to blow a hole in his brain for
money. Then there is Captain Barstein and his wife, Annie, and something we
haven't discussed thoroughly, Mabel and Bowers."

"Yes, Mabel
and my Sergeant."

"She left
town all of a sudden. Maybe she and Bowers have a thing worked out. You said he
was the first on the scene. Maybe he took the money and used it to gain favor with
the lady."

J.L. took a long
pull on the cigar, blew the smoke out, knocked the ashes off the end, and
glanced at me. "I like the way you think Leicester. I'm still checking to
see if Mabel's mother did, in fact, die. We should know by tomorrow. I have my
eye on Sergeant Bowers. You can bank on it."

"What about
Captain Barstein?"

"He better
not make any major improvements to the Moma C. in the next few weeks."

Sooner or later
everything comes to an end. So it was with the great cognac, cigar, and the view
from the rooftop of Owl's Head.

J.L. walked me
out to my car. "We'll talk tomorrow. Don't worry, this thing will work
itself out."

"You bet.
Thanks for the food and wine. Be sure to tell Kathleen good night for me."

Easing the car
slowly out the winding lane, I turned onto the main road leading back to
Rockland. Driving on the narrow, two-lane pavement, and deep in thought, I
almost did not see the jogger. If he hadn't been wearing a red reflecting vest,
I might not have. He was dressed in a blue running suit, which reminded me of
the one Anastasio wore, a sweatband, and a fisherman's wool cap. Easing over
toward the center of the road so as not to force the jogger off the pavement,
he waved a 'thank you' as we passed each other.

A half-mile
further down the dark road, I suddenly slammed on the brakes, skidding onto the
shoulder. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, my foot shook on the
brake pedal as dust settled around the car. The engine stalled and made soft
pinging noises as it cooled.

Small-disconnected
facts, if you take note of them, have a way of becoming connected. Leaning back
in the seat, I tilted my head as far back as it would go against the headrest. "I
know who did it", I said, aloud. "I know who did it".

Suddenly
becoming aware of a dangerously fast pounding in my chest, I sensed a familiar,
bitter taste explode in my mouth, an acrid sensation. This had happened before,
during battles with ugly weather while flying airplanes. But now it wasn't
thunderstorms in dark nights, or fighting heavy ice in mountainous terrain that
brought the taste. It was the knowledge of senseless murder by evil people.

*
* *

I had been
sitting in the same position for four hours. Only once had I gotten out to
stretch and get the blood flowing. The small parking lot was deserted. The
waters of the bay had an eerie calm. Fog drifted in silver, ghost-like tendrils
along the tree line across the inlet.

It was of no use
to drive back to the Navigator Inn. I could never have slept anyway. So I had
turned around and driven back down to the Port Clyde docks. Here in the cold of
the night, I sat watching the dawn come slowly, almost sneaking up on the
world. Boats anchored out in the middle of the bay emerged dimly from the
blackness.

Hearing the boat
long before it appeared, the purring of a small outboard engine disturbed the
silence of the stealthy dawn. The boat drew swiftly up to the dock. A lone
figure expertly tied lines to cleats and started up the wooden pier. It has
always amazed me how people who live and work on the sea use small skiffs and
boats much the same way we use automobiles.

Getting out of
the car, I stepped into a darkness scented by damp sea and the acrid smell of
rotting trash fish from the seafood factory across the bay. It is an odor I
could never grow used to.

The figure did
not see me until I was within a few feet. "Who the hell are you?" The
voice asked, startled and defensive.

Catching sight
of her face as she emerged from the dark into the dim light on the dock, it
appeared welted, almost ugly. A rope of muscle twisted her black eyebrows into
a Vee shape. Her cheek was pulled back, and freckles spotted dark against pale
skin.

"Annie,” I
said softly. "It's Jay Leicester, the private investigator."

"Oh, thank
heaven,” she said, holding a hand up to her throat, exhaling sharply. "You
scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here at this time of the
morning?" She stepped fully into the light and it lifted the shadows from
her face and erased its appearance of old age.

"There are
some things I need to see in the chandlery. It can't wait."

"Things in
the chandlery, at five o'clock in the morning?" She took a hard look at
me. "Hey, wait a minute, man. You ain't no weirdo or something?"

"No,
Annie,” I said slowly, attempting to calm her. She was uneasy, and I could
appreciate her reasoning. "There is nothing funny going on, I assure you.
It has to do with the two murders."

"Okay, but
people will be here at any moment."

Following her
across the worn, wooden planking to the rear of the chandlery, I held the
screen door while she unlocked the big, solid, wooden door. Taking one last
look at me, she went inside. There was something sad about her. Even her
relieved smile suggested some deep disappointment in life; opportunities lost
that could not be forgotten.

At the wooden
table where the fishermen sat and played their board game, smoked cigars and
wonderful old pipes, talked of the sea, and made fun of landlubbers, Annie
pulled a long chain. The light was only a naked bulb and dim, but it gave her comfort.
She seemed to relax some, being in familiar surroundings.

Walking toward
the front of the barn-like structure, she removed her peacoat and wool cap.
Turning slightly, her head moved part way out of the naked light so that her
face became divided like a Picasso painting. Her illuminated side still showed
a stern distrust. Turning again, she looked at me with fixed attention. Her
eyes were like the bores of a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun. "What
is it you need to see that's so all fired important, Mr. Leicester?" She
turned on more naked light bulbs, never taking her eyes off me.