High Season (18 page)

He turned down a narrow alley on the harbor side of Commercial Street. Pepito's was a “casual expensive” restaurant of a type peculiar to seaside resorts: The customers wore shorts and sandals; the cheapest dinner entrée cost twenty-three dollars. Appetizers were less expensive, but not much. Coffin checked his wallet, in case Serena decided to change her mind about picking up the tab. Pepito's only accepted cash.

The upper deck was crowded—early cocktail drinkers lined the
bar and packed the café tables, shielded from the late afternoon sun by big blue and red umbrellas emblazoned with the Cinzano logo.

A thin blond woman was sitting alone at a table overlooking the harbor. She wore a black tailored suit and Gucci sunglasses. When she saw Coffin, she waved.

“It's very interesting to meet you, Detective,” she said, offering Coffin a thin pale hand. Her handshake was limp and dry as tissue paper. “I've never met one before. A detective, I mean.”

“No one from the state police has spoken to you?” Coffin said, wedging himself into a metal café chair.

“Whatever for?” Serena said. “Have I done something wrong?” A waiter arrived. He was a very handsome young man with olive skin and shoulder length black hair.

“Care for a drink?” Serena said. “I know it's early, but I'm just dying for a martini.”

Coffin ordered a beer for seven dollars and an appetizer plate of fried calamari for nine.

“Grey Goose martini,” Serena said. “Very dry, up with a twist. And the tuna sashimi appetizer.”

The waiter smiled with very white teeth. “Excellent,” he said. “Be right back with your drinks.”

Two tables away, a middle-aged lesbian couple were trying to shush a screaming baby. The baby was fat and waxy. It looked like Don Rickles.

Serena slitted her eyes and said, “Send it back. It isn't done.”

“No one's suggesting you committed a crime, if that's what you mean,” Coffin said when the waiter was gone, “but I'm a little surprised that the Cape and Islands DA's office hasn't contacted you.”

“Because I was out with poor Mr. Merkin the night he died—is that it? You found out about that.”

“Yes.”

“But the state police don't know yet.” Serena smiled broadly. “You see? You're very clever after all, Detective.”

“What were you and Mr. Merkin discussing that night?” Coffin said. “If you don't mind my asking.”

Serena was looking over the railing at someone on the beach. “Good God,” she said, pointing. “Look at that horrible fat man wearing that tiny Speedo. How appalling.”

Coffin squinted. “I think that's Norman Mailer,” he said. “He has a house just down the beach from here.”

“Well, whoever he is, he shouldn't be allowed to go around like that,” Serena said. “It's the kind of thing that's ruining this town for normal people.”

The waiter brought their drinks, smiled brilliantly, and went away again.

“About Mr. Merkin,” Coffin began.

“I
do
mind,” Serena said, looking at him over the rim of her glass, a faint half-smile on her lips.

“Excuse me?” Coffin said.

“I mind if you ask questions about my private conversations, Detective.”

“Why's that, Ms. Hench?”

“Because they're private, that's why. And because I did a bit of checking, and you've got no authority to ask me anything. You're supposed to refer all witnesses to Mr. Mancini. Isn't that right?”

Coffin poured his seven-dollar beer into a Pilsener glass. It was a little flat. “That's technically correct, yes,” he said. “Would you rather talk to the State Police detectives? Is that what you're saying?”

“If I do, I'll be sure to mention our little lunch date,” Serena said. “But you wouldn't tell them anyway. You'll let them figure it out for themselves. Am I wrong?”

Coffin sipped his beer. “We'll see,” he said.

“I didn't kill him, I can tell you that, and I have no idea who did.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Around midnight. He said he was going for a walk, then heading back to his condo.”

The smiling waiter arrived with their food. The calamari was lightly breaded and fried with a dash of red pepper, the way Coffin liked it. “One more question,” Coffin said, slowly chewing a rubbery band of squid. “Once the Moors is built, what's next for REIC, exactly?”

Serena's smile tightened, then disappeared. “That's out of bounds, Detective,” she said. The smile returned. “Now be a good boy and let Serena taste one of those lovely calamari.”

 

Coffin walked back to Town Hall and climbed into the Dodge. It started on the third try. He drove to Sal's Auto Repair, just off Shank Painter, across from the A&P.

Sal was standing under one of the garage's two lifts, draining the oil from an aging Volkswagen. A big-bellied man in his sixties, Sal wore Elvis-style sideburns and a tall gray pompadour. The garage smelled like grease and carbon and recapped tires.

“Sure, I'll take a look at it,” Sal said, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “But why don't you junk that piece of shit, Frankie? Buy yourself something nice. I got a real clean Subaru wagon at home, all-wheel drive. Make you a good deal on it.”

“Can't afford it, Sal.” Coffin held his hands out, palms up. “I'm broke.”

“What's the matter? I figured you'd be getting rich on overtime.”

“No such luck.”

Sal lowered his voice. “I got a theory about these two killings—Jason Duarte and the Merkin guy. Want to hear it?”

“Sure,” Coffin said.

“I figure it's a conspiracy. Who gains, that's my question.”

“So?”

“The merchants. The guest house owners, the restaurant people, the whale-watch industry. The chamber of freaking commerce. I mean, look around. I've never seen this town so busy. People are coming from all over to see the place where Reverend Ron was found dead in a dress.”

“So you're saying the chamber of commerce killed two people to stimulate tourism?”

“Bingo. I called the state police and told them to check it out, but they treated me like I was nuts.”

“Assholes,” Coffin said, shaking his head.

Sal climbed into the wrecker, cranked its big diesel engine, and then reached for something under the seat. “I figure they're in on it, too, somehow,” he shouted, over the diesel's clatter and growl. He held up a long-barreled revolver with a bore the size of a dime. “With all that's going on, I don't trust nobody but my wife, my dog, and Mr. Smith and Wesson here,” he shouted, dropping the truck into gear. “And I'm not so sure about my damn wife!”

 

The Oyster Shack was slower even than usual. The jukebox was quiet. Two discouraged fishermen sat at the end of the bar, long noses in their glasses of beer.

“He ain't here,” Billy said when Coffin pushed the screen door open.

“He who?” Coffin said.

“Whoever you're looking for.” Billy waved at the two fishermen. “Unless it's one of these dumb-asses.”

“Hey!” said the fisherman on the left. He was tall and lean, bald on top with long hair hanging down his back—a skullet. “We don't come here for that kind of abuse, y'know.”

“Sure we do,” the other fisherman said.

Captain Nickerson climbed the slender bars of his cage: claw, claw, beak. “Show us your tits!” he said.

“What makes you think I'm looking for somebody?” Coffin said.

Billy grinned. “Investigating two murders, you
better
be looking for somebody.”

Outside, the sky had turned green. The wind picked up, scattering bits of trash around Billy's parking lot.

“Right now I'm just looking for a drink,” Coffin said.

“How about a little shot of the monster?” Billy said. He opened a small cabinet behind the bar and took out a dusty cloth bag, from which he extracted a brown bottle. A sea serpent swam across its peeling and faded label.

Billy winked apishly at Coffin, took two rocks glasses down from the overhead rack, uncorked the bottle, and poured a small shot each for Coffin and himself.

“To the seafaring Coffins,” Coffin said, toasting.

“Roger that,” Billy said. They clinked glasses and sipped the whiskey. It tasted old and warm and enormously rich, like something that should have been illegal.

“Hey, I'll have a shot of that,” said the tall fisherman, waving a ten-dollar bill.

“When monkeys fly out of your ass,” Billy said. “Put your damn money away.”

“Jesus Christ,” the fisherman said. “Excuuuuse
me
.”

“Why do you call it the monster?” the other fisherman asked.

Billy grinned. “This here,” he said, holding the bottle up to the light, “is one of three remaining bottles of Old Loch Ness, a single malt scotch made by the Loch Ness distillery in 1928—right before it burned to the ground.” Billy pointed a thick finger at Coffin. “His granddad was a rumrunner during Prohibition days. This bottle is from his famous last run.”

“Why famous?” said the tall fisherman.

“Famous on account of his boat was rammed and sunk by the Coast Guard just twenty yards off of Herring Cove beach, and the old man drowned in eight feet of high tide, 'cause he couldn't swim. A few cases survived, and this bottle, like I said, is almost the last of it.”

“A fascinating tale,” said the tall fisherman. “Let's shake this peanut stand.”

“Okay, okay,” his friend said, downing his beer.

“Eat me!” said Captain Nickerson. “Eat me!”

Coffin sipped the monster, closed his eyes, swallowed. The whiskey burned pleasantly on the way down. He opened his eyes and leaned his elbows on the bar. The sky had grown dark. Lightning jittered in the western sky.

“I've got a new theory about this whole murder deal,” Billy said.

“Great,” Coffin said. “Another theory.” He lit a cigarette. It tasted good with the scotch.

“I figure Merkin and Duarte were lovers. The wife found out and had them both whacked. What do you think?”

Coffin reached for the monster, uncorked it, and poured himself another shot. “I think it makes as much sense as anything else that comes out of your mouth on a given day.” He pointed out the window. “Here it comes,” he said.

The rain had finally started. A few fat drops pelted the parking lot; then the downpour began in earnest.

Billy shrugged. “Okay, fine. Don't take me seriously. But I'll tell you, people are starting to get spooked. They're locking their doors, loading their guns, and looking under the beds at night.”

“I don't blame them,” Coffin said. “I'm pretty spooked myself.”

“Comforting words from your local police department,” Billy said.

“Thar she blows!” shrieked Captain Nickerson.

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy said.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Captain Nickerson, fluffing his neck feathers.

Coffin frowned. “Most of the time, murders are obvious. You show up at the scene and there's a woman lying dead with a bunch of stab wounds, the knife still stuck in her chest. The boyfriend's there, covered with blood. You ask him if he killed her, and he says no, he found her like that. You say, you mean you walked in and she was lying there dead and then she sprayed blood all over you? He says yeah, and you arrest him. Once in a while you get a planned killing, and those are always tougher. A lot of them go unsolved.”

Billy's eyebrows went up. “So you're saying this guy might get away with it?”

“Maybe,” Coffin said, drumming his fingers on the bar. “With Mancini running the investigation, I'd say his chances are pretty good.”

Billy squinted. “You ever get pissed off enough that you wanted to kill somebody?” he asked.

“Sure. Rolled up at a crime scene in Baltimore once, and a guy shot at us through the window. He was a terrible shot—all wiggy on crystal meth—but I was enraged.”

“So?”

“We had four uniforms there. We decided not to wait for the SWAT guys. We used garbage can lids as shields and stormed the place. Turned out the guy was out of ammo by then anyway.”

“What happened to him?”

“He slipped and fell down a couple of flights of stairs. Broke his pelvis. Cops hate being shot at.”

They said nothing for a while. Billy wiped the bar in slow, greasy circles.

“How about you?” Coffin said. “Ever get mad enough to kill somebody?”

“Me?
I've
got nothing to get mad about, Frank.” Billy grinned, tossed the sopping bar towel into a bucket on the floor, then spread his arms wide. “Look around—I'm building an empire.”

 

The rain had stopped, and the clouds were slowly opening like enormous curtains. A ragged fog oozed off the bay, slowly wrapping the town in its gray tendrils. Coffin decided to walk home from Billy's the back way, through the cemetery on its nameless gravel road. The night was warm, the moon off-kilter and egg shaped, three-quarters full. Little puffs of fog swirled around the gravestones. They looked like rows of bad nineteenth-century teeth, mossed and tilting. The narrow road curved between ornate mausoleums and monuments to sea captains, including his great-grandfather's—a tall column topped by a carved marble globe. To Coffin's right, down a rutted lane, squatted the granite crypt of three young girls, all dead of diphtheria in the 1860s. Their names were carved into the lintel: Temperance, Chastity, and Silence Bledsoe. They were the ghosts of Provincetown past.

The cemetery was deserted, quiet; the small echoes of Coffin's footsteps between the gravestones, like something scurrying among the markers, made his heart beat faster and the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He almost jumped out of his skin when a pair of dark, brush-tailed shapes emerged from a copse of trees a few yards away and regarded him for several moments, eyes gleaming orange in the fog-dimmed moonlight.