Vineyard Stalker (5 page)

“I think I should hang around for the rest of the night, at least.”

He smiled. “There's no need for that. I've lived alone here for a long time. I'll be fine.”

“You haven't had a stalker before. I'll spend the night up under the oak tree and leave in the morning.”

He pressed his palms together. “If you wish.” He went to a shelf and brought back a blanket. “But at least take this with you.” He picked up the can of cat food. “I'll put this where Mr. Mephistopheles can't get at it. In the morning I'll trade it to you for the blanket.”

I left him and walked back to the oak tree. The camera and binoculars were where I'd left them. The faint light in the cabin window went out and the night seemed darker than before. I swept the meadow with the glasses and saw no movement. I leaned my back against the oak thinking he was a trusty tree, and wrapped the blanket around me.

I woke before the coming of the sun, full of guilt for having slept. My chest was sore. I watched the brightening eastern sky, then saw two deer down by the mill pond. They were unalarmed. The woods came alive with the cheeps and chirps of wakening birds.

A little after dawn I carried my gear to the house. Nunes was up and had soup and tea already prepared. We sat outside, on the sunny side of the house, and ate breakfast.

“A lovely morning,” said Nunes.

“Yes.” Another beautiful day on the beautiful island of Martha's Vineyard. I wondered if the prowlers and their boss were awake to see it.

When I left, he thanked me yet again and told me I'd done my duty and should go back to my normal life.

“I'll see your sister and return her equipment,” I said, “and I'll give this can to my friend to have it analyzed.”

“Let's hope that they find nothing.”

A consummation devoutly to be wished, but one I didn't expect. “I'll let you know what I learn.”

I drove to John Skye's farm and found him and his wife Mattie over coffee. They were early risers. The twins, Jen and Jill, were, as college students will, sleeping late.

“I thought you might be up,” I said.

“You must be bored,” said Mattie. “Zee and the kids will be home in just a few days, if you can hold out that long. Have some coffee.”

“The bachelor life is not the life for me,” I said, putting the can on John's desk as Mattie went to fetch another cup.

“We don't have a cat,” said John, eyeing it.

“If you did, I wouldn't give you this stuff,” I said. “As I recall, you have a pal up at Weststock who's a toxicologist. Is that right?”

“Not all of us professorial types are in the liberal arts,” said John. “Yes, my colleague George Faulk is in love with poisons. Why, is this cat food full of cyanide?”

“I don't know, but I want to. Do you think your friend will test it for me? The quicker, the better.”

John eyed the can, then eyed me. “Tell me your tale.”

I told him of the earlier vandalism and then described how I'd seen the prowler put the can on the ground beside the cabin, but I didn't mention names or tell him anything about what had happened on the trail beside the stream.

Mattie returned with my coffee cup just as I ended my narrative.

“Now you can say everything again,” she said, pouring. “John filters stories sometimes and I want the original.”

So I repeated myself and when I was through she said, “Don't these people you work for have names?”

“They do,” I said, “but I can't tell you what they are. Call it client confidentiality.”

“You're not a lawyer or a doctor, J.W. You can't claim confidentiality.”

“How do you know I'm not a lawyer or a doctor? Maybe I'm just too modest to have mentioned it before.”

“Ha!”

“Maybe I'll tell you someday. Meanwhile, I'd like to have the contents of this can analyzed.”

“Why don't you take it to the police?” asked John. “It seems to me that they're the ones to do the test. If somebody's trying to poison a cat, they should know about it.”

“My client doesn't want the police involved.”

“Why not?” asked Mattie.

“Ask my client.”

“How can we ask your client if we don't know who your client is?”

I smiled at her.

John tapped his forefinger on the table. “Say, I think Sam Myers is driving up to the Kittery Trading Post today. I'll bet I can get him to drop this off at Weststock on the way. All I have to do is tell him it's a suspected poisoning. That'll catch his interest.” He looked at his watch and got out of his chair. “I'll call him and George right now and tell them the situation.”

He went into the house and Mattie looked at me. “You're infuriating sometimes,” she said.

“And you're gorgeous all the time,” I said. I tried fluttering my eyelashes, but all I got was a laugh.

A while later John returned, smiling. “We're in business,” he said.

Carole Cohen worked at Gull Realty, one of the countless real estate companies that kept busy buying and selling property on the Vineyard. The two growth industries on the island were building mansions and selling property so more could be built; Carole was in the right profession.

I found her in her office, poring over papers while she talked on the phone with a client. She waved a manicured hand at me and pointed to a chair. Her desk was piled with papers, many adorned with photos of houses, and her diplomas and certifications were hung on the wall along with photos of her and happy-looking people I took to be satisfied customers, standing in front of a variety of buildings, both domestic and commercial. A matching but unoccupied desk sat beside hers, and similar diplomas and certificates on the walls proclaimed Jordan Cohen to be an equally qualified Realtor.

There were even pictures of small places, to prove, I guessed, that even the little people could depend on Carole to do well by them. Not that really little people could thrive on the increasingly pricey Vineyard, where a house for less than six big figures was getting very hard to find.

It was no wonder that people were after Roland Nunes's land, and although terrorism was still not a usual ploy to encourage a sale, perhaps it would become more popular. I thought of my own acres, purchased long ago by my father when Ocean Heights would have been considered to be on the wrong side of the tracks if Edgartown had had tracks, and land there was cheap. Lately, though, there was no cheap land on the island and more than one Realtor had come inquiring about the possibility of me selling some of mine for very nice money. So far, I'd always said no, but my taxes were getting so high that I didn't know how much longer I could hold out. Adam and Eve had been forced to give up Eden, so it could happen to anyone.

When Carole finally hung up her phone, I gave her the camera and binoculars.

“Thank you,” she said. “You just missed Jordan. He's out with a customer. Shut the door, will you? Did you get some pictures already? That was fast.”

“I'm not sure they'll be much use,” I said, returning to my chair. “The guy had blackened his face, so he might be hard to identify.”

“But you saw him. You caught him in the act. Good. Did you scare him off?”

“Yes, I scared him off. I yelled and he ran.”

“Good. Maybe he won't be back. I'll have this film developed right away.” She smiled. “Thanks. The job didn't take as long as I thought it would. I'll give you a check.” She found her purse and pulled out a checkbook.

“I wouldn't be too sure he won't be back,” I said.

She'd been reaching for a pen, but now her hand stopped. “Why do you say that?”

She was paying me for my work, so I told her everything that happened, finishing with my arrangement with John Skye.

She stared at me. “You were shot? You have to see a doctor! My God, I didn't imagine that you'd be in danger!”

“It wasn't your fault, and it was only a stun gun. I'm fine. The point is that those two guys, whoever they are, are not pussy cats. I think that if their boss decides to keep pushing this thing and pays them enough, they'll be back. I think it's time for you to take this to the cops.”

She paid no attention to that suggestion. “They wouldn't dare do anything else, would they? Now that they've been seen.”

“Some people will take a lot of chances if the money's right.”

“But one of them has been photographed!”

“He doesn't know that.”

“But they must know someone might be waiting for them if they go back.”

“They don't have to go back,” I said. “Your brother goes to work every morning. They just have to wait for the right moment and they can catch him away from home. He rides that moped wherever he goes, and a man on a moped hasn't got much protection.”

“You don't think they'd really hurt him, do you?”

“Someone apparently wants his land pretty badly, if your theory is right. If something happened to your brother…”

“Something fatal, you mean!” she interrupted.

“Yes. If that happened, your cousin would own the property.”

She sat back, frowning first into space, then at me. “If the prowler knew we have his photo that would make a difference. We'll have to let him know before he does any more damage.”

I was annoyed with her. “I don't know how you're going to tell him that, but I do know you should be talking with the police. This is vandalism at the very least, and it has the potential of being a lot more.”

“No,” she said vehemently. “No police. I don't want to take a chance on having my brother arrested. I don't want to hear anymore about the police!”

“I made a mistake taking this job,” I said, getting up. “I never should have agreed to leave the police out of it, but I thought it would be just a simple matter. But it isn't, and now if something happens to your brother the police will be involved whether you like it or not and you and I will both be at fault for not talking with them earlier!”

She spoke in short, staccato sentences. “Please. Sit down. Don't leave. Let me think. I need help. I need someone I can trust. I trust you.”

I felt my teeth clenching, but then I looked at her desperate face and the tension eased. I sat down. “You have to take this to the police,” I said. “They don't have any reason to look back thirty years, so they may never find out about his past. Besides, even if they do, it'll be better than having him hurt or killed.”

“I won't tell them if I don't have to, but I will tell them if I do. Will that make you happy?”

“You should tell them right away. It's the best advice I can give you.”

“No,” she said, frowning into the air. “We can wait at least a day. Those prowlers will have to report back to their employer, won't they? And they probably didn't do so last night, so that means they can't do it before today. And then they'll have to agree on what to do next, and that means they won't do anything before tomorrow at the earliest, so we have at least today to work before we have to tell the police.” She brought her eyes down to mine. “I think that if the man you photographed knows about the photos, he'll want out of this business. I think that if he can be identified he may want to spill the beans rather than take the full responsibility for what he's done. Does that sound right to you?”

“Fall guys rat out their friends pretty often, but how are you going to let him know he's on film?”

Her eyes grew bright. “I'm not going to let him know. I'm going to let his boss know. If his boss knows we've got his picture, he won't want him hanging around where he can be found and might talk. I think he'd rather send him away and drop this whole business. What do you think?”

“It could work like that. But how are you going to find his boss?”

“If I'm right, there's a chance the boss is my cousin or one of Roland's abutters. You can start with them.”

“I thought my job was over.”

“You took the pictures. That's about all you'll have to say.” She looked at her watch. “You can see all three of them today. You have plenty of time. I think you should start with my cousin Sally. She's right here in town. Will you do it?”

I thought she was right about having one more day before the cops had to be called in.

“It might be good to have the photos developed first, so we know what we have,” I said.

“Actually, it may not make any difference,” said Carole. “What's important is that they believe we have the photos.”

She was probably right, especially since the prowler might be unidentifiable. “If we have a face to show them, we'll have a stronger argument,” I said, feeling stubborn.

“You can drop the film off downtown right now,” she said. “They have a fast service and you can pick the photos up in an hour, before you go see Sally.”

“Where will I find her?”

She gave me an ironic smile. “In a realty office, where else? Prada Real Estate, right up the street.”

There were a lot of Pradas in Edgartown. Several of them worked for the town, but one, at least, had gotten into a more lucrative profession.

“Who are the other two suspects?” I asked.

“Give me a minute,” she said, and opened a file cabinet. In not much more than the requested minute, she pushed two eight-by-eleven envelopes toward me. “Names, ranks, and serial numbers.”

I opened one envelope. In it were typed pages and photographs. “This is a pretty good dossier.”

“The long arm of real estate,” said Carole. “We know everything and everybody.”

She leaned forward. “Well, are we still in business?”

“For today, at least.”

“Thank you.”

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“Where is your brother working?”

She told me and I left her office with the camera. Because I'd been lucky enough to get a parking space, and was unlikely to find one farther downtown, I walked to the photo shop.

“Well, J.W.,” said Sam, the proprietor, when I handed him the camera, “are you in the Carpe Noctis business now?”

“Not so you'd notice. I don't trust myself to unload this camera, so I'm going to let you do it. And I'd like to see the prints in an hour or so, after I feed my cats. Can you manage all that?”

“I can indeed,” said Sam. “Feed them well.”

I drove home and found Oliver Underfoot and Velcro irked by having been abandoned for the night, but in a forgiving mood, especially when I refilled their dishes and gave them fresh water.

“It won't be long before everybody's home,” I said to them. “Only a few more days.”

They thought that was good news.

I watched them eat, tails in the air as they scoffed up their food, and I thought of the can of food left by the prowler. I hoped I was wrong about the poison, but stories of cat killers are not rare and I couldn't forget the remark I'd heard as I lay dazed on the ground. I could understand and sometimes forgive people killing other people, but I had no grasp of cat killers. Such people were a cruel and dismaying mystery to me.

And in this case, I now realized, the possibility that the prowlers were willing to poison Mr. Mephistopheles was one reason I was still on the job. I wanted them stopped, not because they'd shot me—that was understandable, given the circumstances—but because I suspected they were cat killers.

By such small emotions are our lives changed. I once read about a diplomat who was so offended by Hitler's halitosis that he couldn't bear to talk with him and thereby lost a chance to try to prevent the invasion of Poland. Just as Hitler's bad breath may have caused World War II, so my suspicions led me into trouble I might otherwise have avoided.

I went out to the garden and picked enough beans for supper, then drove back to Edgartown. Along the bike paths the galloping moms were pushing their tri-wheeled baby carriages and walkers were taking their morning constitutionals while dodging the occasional amateur biker. The probikers in their skintight pants and racing helmets of course scorned the bike paths and insisted on riding on the highway. Bike paths were too slow and dangerous for them; they didn't want to dodge walkers and families on rented bikes, they preferred to force irritated automobile drivers to dodge
them.

Prada Real Estate had a small parking lot behind the office. I left my truck there beside a lovely little Mini Cooper and walked down to the photo shop.

The photos were ready and I gave them a quick study. They were not Pulitzer contenders, but a couple did show the shadowy face of the prowler as he'd glanced my way for some reason. In one shot, I could see the cat food can in his hand, and in another he was placing the can on the ground beside the cabin.

I showed the best shot of the prowler's face to Sam, the proprietor. “You know this guy, by any chance?”

Sam looked and shook his head. “Looks like one of those Seals or Special Forces guys who sneak onto beaches in the movies. That black cap and the black clothes and that black face camouflage. You a combat photographer or something like that these days, J.W.? Is Martha's Vineyard being invaded by the Marines?”

“Nothing like that. Just somebody sneaking around at night.”

“And you caught him in the act, eh?”

“The camera isn't mine,” I said. “I just brought it down here for a friend who wants to know who the guy is.”

“I'm afraid I can't help you,” said Sam. He studied the photo again and added, “I doubt if anybody else can, either, what with all the stuff the guy's got on his face.”

“Can you make me some more copies of these?”

“Sure.”

When he came back with the copies, I said, “You're a photo pro. Do you happen to know anybody who can clean that camouflage off this guy's face? I read someplace that they can do that sort of thing with computers these days.”