Nantucket Grand (12 page)

“Then why not just shoot the TV during the Rachel Maddow show?”

“I kill people, not appliances. I'm a trained killer, remember? I just snapped.”

“This is crazy.”

“Good! I'll take the insanity defense.”

A dark speculation obscured my thoughts for a moment. I half-expected a cloud to drift across the sun and drape us in a wintry shadow. But the world remained neutral, and the hard frosty sunlight continued to sting the eyes, glittering on the chrome of Lattimer's truck.

“I wonder if someone else knew that,” I said.

“Knew what?”

“That'd you'd go to jail before revealing where you really were that day. It makes you the perfect patsy.”

He flinched as if I'd raised a fist. “You're saying Daisy was part of some—some conspiracy? That she was using me, using my feelings…”

“It's possible.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“Okay.”

“She's a good person.”

“Good people do bad things sometimes.”

“Not her.”

He was adamant. There was no point in arguing. I had other things on my mind anyway. “You still keep your sniper rifle, don't you?”

“I—what? Yes, of course. Of course I keep it. I haven't used it in years. That alone would put paid to this preposterous frame-up idea of yours.”

“Could I take a look at it?”

“Why?”

“If what I'm thinking is true, it gets you off the hook and no one will ever have to know anything about you and Daisy.”

“Fine. Follow me.”

He had stored the weapon in the back of his bedroom closet, behind a rack of seldom-worn evening clothes draped in dry cleaners' plastic. When he pulled out the rifle, I saw a look of baffled chagrin twist his face. He held out the gun as if it had turned into a large snake. He almost dropped it and let it slither away, but he was too good a soldier for that.

“What the hell? How is this…What is going on here?”

“It's not your rifle, is it David?”

“It certainly is not! How could you know that?”

“I didn't know. I guessed.”

“You guessed that someone stole my rifle.”

“Borrowed it. They've been trying to return it for weeks.”

He stood very still. “The prowlers.”

“They're not trying to take anything. They're trying to put something back.”

“But—oh, of course. The ballistics! The round and the casing won't match the barrel of my rifle. That would prove I had nothing to do with the killing and wreck the plan. So…this thing was slipped into my closet as some kind of decoy, on the off-chance I went looking for my tuxedo, and all they had to do was replace it with the real thing when they were done.”

“That's turned out to be kind of a problem for them.”

“If I hadn't noticed…if you hadn't come…if they had managed to—”

I patted his shoulder. “That's a lot of ifs.”

His mood shifted again, now that he knew he was in the clear. He was a mercurial old geezer. “I want my rifle back.”

“We'll get it. I promise.”

“And I want to know who did this.”

“So do I.”

“You have to find out! Be tireless! Leave no stone unturned!”

“That's my job. Turning over the stones. And I'm actually pretty good at it.”

“Yes, you are. Of course you are. You're a tribute to your profession. I'm sorry. This has been quite a shock.” He extended the rifle to me. “I suppose you'll be wanting this. As evidence. It's of no use to me.”

I took the big gun, which was surprisingly heavy. “Thanks, David. Maybe we can trace it.”

“You're sure you don't want some coffee? It's George Howell Mamuto AA—freshly ground.”

“No, thanks. But I would like to check your iTunes account.”

He stare was almost comically blank. “I don't have an iTunes account.”

“Yes, you do.”

We went into his office. I handed him back the rifle, and booted his computer. I noticed all his passwords on a notepad next to the keyboard. Hacking into his system wouldn't exactly have been a challenge—more like walking into unlocked house.

He looked over my shoulder as I scrolled down through his library. “There! You can tell it's not mine! No Beatles, no Dave Clark Five. I was a big fan of the Dave Clark Five. No Brubeck. No Miles Davis. And no Schubert! This was sloppy work. I would never own a music collection that excluded the B flat and the E flat trios.”

“So, I take it you mostly listen to vinyl?”

“It's very hip now. According to Daisy. Everything old is new again. Except me.”

“Can I take a look at your collection?”

“Of course.”

All the African music from the iPod was there. He seemed authentically shocked. “I have never seen any of those records before. Besides, why would I have both?”

“People like to take their music with them. They listen while they're walking or driving, or working in the garden.”

He sniffed. “Multi-tasking. A feat which human beings are incapable of. For your information. When I listen to music I sit in a comfortable chair properly placed in front of two speakers and I give that music my undivided attention. I am a longtime advocate of undivided attention, Chief Kennis. As—I suspect—are you.”

“It helps in police work.” I admitted.

“Well, there you have it. Clearly these…items…were placed here when the perpetrators stole my rifle.”

“It certainly looks that way.”

He handed me back the rifle. “I suppose we're done then.”

“Pretty much. I have stones to turn over. And it would be best if I was gone before Phillipa gets back. Don't you think?”

“Yes, you're right. Good Lord. Go, go, go. I hate making up lies, and she never believes me anyway.”

We walked out to the driveway and I thought—that house is overheated. It must cost them a fortune. The icy air felt good. I set the big rifle on the backseat of my cruiser, shook the old man's hand, and drove back into town. I knew the first stone I was going to turn over.

She was working as a guidance counselor at the high school.

Chapter Fifteen

The Heiress

My main concern as I pulled into the slant parking in front of the high school was not running into my daughter. Caroline had reached the age where the simple fact of my physical presence mortified her. We had to coordinate show times if there was a movie playing we both wanted to see, so there would be absolutely no chance of running into each other at the theater. Since The Starlight had started running the same movies as the Dreamland, I often solved the problem by going to the smaller venue and getting dinner first at the White Dog. School would be trickier. But the corridors were empty. Class was in session.

I ran into Alana Trikilis carrying a hall pass for the bathroom. She seemed oddly nervous, but perhaps she didn't want to be seen with me either, and for much better reasons than my daughter. “My dad needs to talk to you,” she said.

“He already did.”

“Oh, good, great. He was freaking out.”

“It's fine, now. We spoke. But I wanted to ask you…”

“I have to go. Sorry!”

Then she sprinted down the hall away from me. Something was definitely up with her, but I didn't have time to worry about it. I found Daisy DeHart's office just ahead of the bell, and was safely inside when the corridors filled for the between-class rush.

She stood up behind her desk when I knocked on the half-open door. I paused a moment, off-balance, just looking at her. I'm sure she got that a lot.

She was small, maybe five-foot-two, her body lush and lean, like some dancers I'd known who'd had to give up their ambitions because of their proportions. Her face, framed by short blond hair, had a smudged wounded beauty, like a French film star from the sixties, a Bardot sensuality. Those wide blue eyes shifted something inside you, the way a small tremblor shifts the foundation of house. I could imagine the cracks in the walls. This woman could do damage, and without even meaning to, without even noticing, though I had a feeling she noticed everything. She registered my awkward silence, and the reason for it.

She smiled to set me at ease. “Can I help you?”

“Yes—thank you. I'm Police Chief Henry Kennis.”

“Daisy DeHart.” She stepped around her desk and shook my hand. “I've seen your picture in the paper. And in
People
Magazine.”

“That was unfortunate.” Briefly a celebrity after the Preston Lomax affair, I had been included in what my ex-wife called “the nobodies section” of the magazine's Most Beautiful People issue that year. I'd been trying to live it down ever since. We took our positions, facing off on either side of the desk.

“Is this about one of the kids?”

I wasn't sure where to begin. It was a delicate situation. Part of me wanted to say,
“Alana Trikilis told me that you're in charge of procurement for a drugs and pornography ring on the island. How do you square that with your job as a guidance counselor?”
But I had promised Alana I wouldn't do that, and the motive behind that promise was a sound one. If Daisy was involved, the last thing I needed to do was alarm her, without a real case. My grandfather used to say, “If you want to catch the roaches in the kitchen sink at night, don't turn on the lights first.” I didn't need these bugs scuttling back down into the drain. If Alana was right, they'd already destroyed most of the evidence by torching their own studio.

Best to skip the innuendoes and preliminaries. “No,” I said. “This has nothing to do with the students, unless you know where Jill Phelan got the drugs that put her into a coma.”

Her gaze was level, as if she knew all the fabled “tells” for lying. “I wish I did.” I let her squirm for a few moments. “I'm not sure what you want to—”

“It's about David Lattimer.”

“Oh, God.”

“You're his alibi for the Todd Macy killing, but effectively he doesn't have one. Because he'd rather go to jail than have his wife find out about the two of you.”

“The two of us?”

“Your affair.”

She laughed, more of a short incredulous snicker, as if I'd suggested she'd gotten a nose job, or colored her hair. She was blond to the roots and “rhinoplasty” was the last word you'd ever associate with that face.

“He's in love with you,” I persisted.

“He's a million years old! He looks like the Crypt Keeper.”

“But you were with him that afternoon, in his truck. You were behind the wheel. You forgot to reset the driver's seat.”

“Oh, shit.”

“What was going on, Daisy? This could be important. For both of you.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“It's crucial.”

I sat and waited.

She pulled her hair back with both hands, drawing her fingers over her scalp like a giant comb. She yanked it and then began. “We had a brief…I don't even know what to call it. A flirtation.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“No! Never!”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“I kissed him once. That was a mistake. It was the night we met, at a fundraiser for the Maria Mitchell Association. He's on the board. I was there with—a friend.”

“Andrew Thayer?”

“How did you know that?”

“Lattimer wrote a letter to you. He never sent it. But he mentioned the idea of killing Todd Macy and burning down Andrew's cottage as a way of…leveling the playing field, I guess you could say. Getting rid of his rivals. It was a crazy fantasy. That's why he never sent it. But he knew Andy was thinking about moving off-island and he figured losing the cottage might be the tipping point.”

“This just gets worse and worse.”

“So, you were at the fundraiser…”

“Andy left early. Something about short-selling on the Nikkei. And I wound up talking to David. He was charming, I was a little tipsy, he invited me outside to look at the stars. ‘Maria Mitchell would approve,' he said. And he kissed me and I let him.”

“Despite that Crypt Keeper thing.”

“I guess I have father issues.”

“More like grandfather.”

“Thanks so much. We saw each other from time to time, when his wife was away, but I never let it go any further than that. High school rules, I told him. No getting past second base.” She saw the look on my face and crossed her arms over chest, pressed a palm to her mouth. Finally she dropped it to her throat. “He said I made him feel like he really was in high school again. It was very—flattering.”

“But you broke it off.”

“That day—in the truck. It was getting out of control. He was talking about leaving his wife. So, yes. I had to end it.”

“And that's all. You haven't seen him since.”

“Just from a distance.”

I sat back, listening to the dim thunder of a basketball game in progress in the gym down the hall. “Tell me about your father.”

“You're not my shrink.”

“Sorry. You're right.”

“And he's not my father. He's my stepfather. My father's long gone. I never even knew him.”

I stood up. “I think we're done here for now.” I pulled a card out of my pocket, and dropped it on the desk blotter. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

She sat forward. “I just did.”

“Okay.”

“That day—the day you're talking about…that's David's alibi for the shooting. It has nothing to do with Andrew's cottage. He still could have done that. He lives right next door. He didn't need the truck to set that fire.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. Totally. He wrote about it in that letter. You just told me.”

“All right. It's a good point. We'll look into it.”

“You better—before he burns down someone else's house.”

“Thanks, Daisy. We'll be in touch.”

I walked out of the school, sat down in my cruiser, but I didn't drive away. I thought about the days just before my divorce, stalking out of the house, jumping in the car and gunning it. It felt good to be on the road, but where was I going to go? Through 'Sconset, around Sankaty and down Polpis Road to town, then back again, or west to Madaket. A U-turn at Millie's Bridge, back into town and then another spin around the Milestone Road-Polpis loop? I might as well have been a lion, pacing circles in his cage.

That was how I felt now—going around and around getting nowhere. I didn't believe David Lattimer had committed any crime more serious than attempted adultery, but I was no closer to finding the real criminals. I had Alana's word about Daisy DeHart, but no hard evidence. I knew she was lying about things but I had no idea which things, no idea what she really felt about Lattimer or where the old man's rifle was hidden, or who might have taken it, or why they killed Todd Macy, or anything else.

No doubt about it: the Nantucket Police Department was batting zero.

But then I searched the LoGran cottage. It wasn't a home run, but as Chuck Obremski always used to tell me, you don't always need a home run.

Sometimes it's enough, just getting a man on base.