Vineyard Deceit (15 page)

Just because August on Martha's Vineyard is occasionally a not-so-good fishing time, does not mean you don't go fishing. In those days you drive up and down the beaches a lot, carrying both light tackle for bonito and regular gear in case you run into a bass or a bluefish who decided not to make the trip north. The bass seem to be coming back after a few years when they were getting very thin, and some people like to catch them and let them go again just so they can be catching something, at least until the bonito show up.

It's illegal to keep any bass under three feet long, and I disapprove of going after the bigger ones, because they're the old females who lay the eggs that will someday—soon, perhaps—replenish the sea with lots of bass, which I'll then be glad to catch. I think a lot die even if you let them go, so I don't fish for bass at all unless I want one for supper, in which case I keep the one I catch whatever size it is, illegal or not. A no doubt dangerous confession for a policeman (only a special one, admittedly) to make, but there you are . . .

It was Tuesday, and Zee and I were fishing the Chappaquiddick beaches. We had cast in vain at Wasque Point, tried again at Bernie's Point, tried for bonito at the Jetties, tried under the cliffs at Cape Pogue and had tried at the Cape Pogue Gut. We had gotten not even a swirl
or a nibble. The sea had yawned at us, and the fish were asleep off in some fish motel. We drove back to the Jetties and found Iowa there making casts with a Swedish Pimple, which is usually a good lure for bonito. It is local wisdom that bonito won't take a lure if it's on a leader, so all of us tie our lures onto our lines. Zee and I had our own Swedish Pimples so attached, of course, and we began fishing without high expectations, beside Iowa.

There were boats anchored or drifting about two hundred yards off the beach. Iowa looked enviously out at them.

“Look at those guys. Catching fish while we're here catching nothing. I'd like to spend just one day out there!”

Fishermen are very inclined to think the other guys are doing better than they are. Many a fisherman had abandoned a perfectly good spot for a worse one because he thought the rods over there were bending more than his was here. In this case, the guys in the boats weren't catching any more than we were. I pointed this out.

Iowa was not about to change his mind. “I'd like to spend just one day out there!”

It was a lovely, lazy day, with blue skies, a hazy horizon that hid Cape Cod, and a gentle southwest wind which was easing sailboats up and down the Sound. The worst day of fishing is, as the bumper stickers say, better than the best day of working, so even though we had seen no fish, Iowa and Zee and I were content.

“There's a helicopter,” said Iowa, looking toward the Cape Pogue lighthouse as he reeled in.

I followed his gaze. There, indeed, was a helicopter. It was coming over the Sound toward Edgartown. We watched it without much interest. As it came closer, we began to hear its engine, and shortly, as it went between us and Edgartown, I recognized it as being the very helicopter that I had seen on the Damon lawn. The helicopter
seemed to be headed there again. We watched it disappear behind North Neck.

Just then a fish hit Iowa's lure. Iowa, half-turned so he could watch the helicopter, spun around so fast that he lost his hat. “Hey!” he yipped.

A bit later, after a good tussle, he landed a nice Spanish mackerel.

“Not bad,” he said. “Not a bonito, but not bad.”

Zee and I could not but agree.

Iowa got a five-gallon plastic bucket from his pickup, filled it with water, and put the mackerel in it head down, throat cut so it could bleed.

A while later I got a hit but lost it. Then Iowa got another mackerel and landed it. Then Zee got one and landed it. There was life in the sea after all. I could see that Zee was beginning to feel pretty good. The shadows of the weekend were being pushed away from her. Fishing can do that for you, especially if the fish are hitting your lure.

“Let's go, Jefferson,” said Zee. “We'll catch your fish for you if we have to, but you'll have a lot more fun if you catch your own.”

I finally hooked a mackerel and actually landed it. Zee patted me on the back. “Good boy,” she said. “I knew you could do it.”

“Watch it,” I said, “or I'll grab one of your zones.”

“Oh, you silver-tongued devil, you. You aren't just sweet talking me, are you?”

I faked a grab and she faked one of her own. Iowa pretended to ignore us.

We fished there all afternoon and had a lot of fun filling up our buckets with Spanish mackerel. Then, right before dusk, Iowa got the first bonito I'd seen all season.

“Hot damn!” he cried. “The good times are here again!”

So they were. Within an hour Zee and I also each had a bonito. I looked at Zee. She had a good healthy smile.
The therapy had worked. “What do you say?” I asked. “Shall we go see the Chief?”

“One more cast.”

She made her cast and reeled in. “Okay,” she said.

Iowa was going to stay awhile longer.

“Don't worry,” I said to him. “When I get into town and show those poor lads who stayed at home what a bonito looks like I'll be sure to tell them that you actually caught the first one.”

“Sure you will,” said Iowa. “I know I can depend on you not to lie about a thing as important as that.”

We kept two of the Spanish mackerel because they are fine eating, but sold the rest of the catch. For my share I got almost as much as I'd spent for gas, which for a surf caster is not bad.

Then we drove to Edgartown's brand-new police station and actually found the Chief in his office. He was getting ready to go home. Instead, he gave Zee a steady look, seemed satisfied at what he saw, and got out a tape recorder.

“Do you mind if I tape us? Later I'll have a transcript made.”

We sat and Zee told her story. The Chief asked her the questions I'd asked her and got the same answers. Then he got out his pipe, leaned back, and studied her face. “You look pretty good, Zee. You seem to have put this behind you pretty well.”

“With a little help from my friends.” She threw me a smile.

“Good. You have no idea what this was all about?”

“No.”

“Do you, J.W.?”

“Maybe.” I told him about my anonymous phone call.

Zee looked at me with surprise. “You never told me about that.”

“I thought you had enough to think about. Anyway, you know now. The thing is,” I said, “that the guy
seemed confused when I told him you'd been gone since Friday. That caught him off guard, somehow.”

“You recognize his voice?”

“No. He'd muffled it somehow or other.”

“Any accent?” asked the Chief. “Anything odd? No? Who do you think he was talking about? You aren't the Vineyard's man of the year, but what off-islanders might want to do you wrong?”

I told him about the incident with the Padishah in the Cape Pogue Gut and about the one in the alcove the night of the party.

“So you think it's him? The Padishah?”

I shrugged. “He's the only guy I can think of. Zee hit him and shoved him overboard. I broke up a play he made for Helga Johanson. He's used to having his own way, especially with women, and has the reputation of being pretty ruthless with people he doesn't like.”

“In Sarofim, maybe. But this is the U.S.A.”

“That's right. But the guy on the phone also said that everything would probably be all right if Zee and I just dropped out of sight for a week. I don't know how long the Padishah is planning to stay in this country, but maybe it's for another week.”

The Chief scribbled a note. “I'll find out. Just to be on the safe side, it might be nice if the two of you actually did go away for a while. They tell me that Nova Scotia is a lot like the Vineyard was twenty years ago . . .”

“The point is,” I said, “that the people who kidnapped Zee were obviously not the ones who, according to my guy, want to hurt her. If they were, they'd have done it. So we've got some kidnappers and we've got these people my guy says want to hurt Zee and me. And they're not the same people.”

“Even I, a simple small-town policeman, understand that,” said the Chief. “But look at it this way. If you two go off for a week, I won't have to worry about you and I can maybe shake a man or two loose to try to find out
what's going on. Why don't you do that? I'd really appreciate it.”

“I have to work,” said Zee.

“I have to work too,” I said.

“No you don't,” said the Chief.

“I want to find out what the hell is going on.”

“I'm your boss,” said the Chief. “I can order you not to snoop around.”

“You can have your badge right now,” I said, reaching for my wallet.

“Now hold on, J.W. You may want that badge before you're through. Just settle down.” I settled down. “Look,” said the Chief, “Zee already got grabbed once up at her place. And that was by people who didn't want to hurt her. If there are people who do want to hurt her, what's to keep them from kidnapping her too?”

“Put an officer on guard. Let somebody ride around with her.”

“I don't need anybody riding around with me!” said Zee. “I can take care of myself!”

“No you can't.”

“Yes I can! If I know I have to be careful, I can be careful.”

“Like you were careful on Friday night!”

“On Friday night, damn it, I didn't know I had to be careful. Now I do. Don't you try to play those ‘Protect the Little Lady' games with me, Jeff Jackson! And I'll tell you something else. I'm not going to let anybody scare me away from my work or my house or this island. I'm going to live my life the way I want to live it!”

“But—”

“No buts!”

I looked at the Chief. He looked at me. “So much for Nova Scotia,” he said. “But I'm going to arrange to have people check up on you when they have time, Zeolinda, so don't get your nose out of joint if a cop comes by now
and then to see if you're still in one piece. The same goes for you, J.W.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Sure. You and Zee can both take care of yourselves. Tell me this: Why do you think that the people who snatched Zee never talked to her?”

“Because they were afraid she'd recognize their voices?”

“Can you think of any other reason?”

“No.”

“Neither can I. This whole kidnapping thing is odd. They grab Zee, keep her for three days, then let her go. No rape, no ransom note, no talk, no anything. It doesn't make sense. Jake Spitz is still on the island working on the jewel theft. I'm going to talk to him. The FBI knows more about kidnapping than I do. Maybe he can figure it out.”

“Maybe they had some plan and then changed their minds,” said Zee.

“What plan? Ransom? Do you have any relatives with money?”

“No. Aunt Emily has money, but she's Aunt Amelia's sister. She's not really related to me.”

“What, then?”

“I don't know. Maybe they thought I was somebody else and found out I wasn't and let me go.”

“I'd like to hear what Spitz thinks,” I said.

The Chief reached for his phone, looked gratified when his call went through, and arranged to meet with Spitz the next afternoon. “One o'clock. You're both welcome to join the party,” he said, hanging up.

“I have to work tomorrow,” said Zee. She looked at her watch. “And right now I have to get home and iron a uniform.” We all stood up.

“I'll feed you first,” I said. “And I'll be here at one, Chief.”

At my place I sent Zee out to the garden to chase away the Bad Bunny Bunch and pick a salad while I filleted
the mackerel, unwrapped a loaf of Betty Crocker's white bread (made with the recipe in the
old
red-and-white cookbook), and put a bottle of Chablis in the fridge and two martini glasses in the freezer beside the Absolut. One always keeps one's vodka in the freezer so it will be cold enough to drink whenever one wishes. While I was working I had a bottle of Yuengling in celebration of the arrival of the bonito. When Zee came in, we rinsed the lettuce, sliced the radishes, cukes, and a baby zook and tossed it all in a bowl.

Zee's fine nose sniffed toward the bread I'd unwrapped.

“Bread!” she said. “You are a devil. You know I'm a sucker for homemade bread.”

“True,” I leered, rubbing my hands together. “Now, my dear, if you'll just slip out of those clothes for half an hour or so, all of that loaf will be yours, heh, heh.”

She gave me a kiss instead.

We had slices of bread and butter for hors d'oeuvres, and washed it down with ice-cold Absolut. When I am wealthy enough to afford Absolut, I rarely corrupt it by adding vermouth or tonic. I use those adornments only when my wallet dictates that I buy the cheap stuff.

“Not bad,” said Zee, patting her flat belly, then holding up a restraining hand. “No more bread right now. It's murder on my waistline. Besides, didn't you fillet a Spanish mackerel?”

I went into the kitchen and got the oven going. Three-quarters of an hour later, we pushed our plates back. Zee touched her lips with her napkin. “Another fine meal at the Jackson place. I believe I detected mayo, dill, and Grey Poupon in the sauce, Chef.”

“But of course, madame. An old family recipe. We will now have coffee and Cognac. No dessert tonight, in deference to your figure.”

“Thank you.”

Before I drove her to her house I asked if she wanted my pistol. “I think you should have it,” I said.

“No thanks. I don't like pistols. Besides, I'm sure I won't need one.”

It was the answer I'd expected.

As I drove her home I found myself looking in my rearview mirror, but no one was ever there. At her house I went in when she did and looked around. No bad guys were hiding in the closets.