A Case of Vineyard Poison (23 page)

“This woman, Marilyn Grimes, has a face I recognize, but don't remember. The Wicked Witch of the West, maybe?”

“Look some more. Maybe it'll come to you.”

There were three other films and close-ups of Marilyn Grimes, all taken at the Hyannis office. Marilyn apparently did not do business at the other branches. She also apparently didn't own any other clothes.

After I'd seen all of the pictures, I still didn't know who she was.

“I've started some wheels turning,” said Helen. “I'm trying to find out if any other of our customers have written checks that were deposited by the New Bedford, Woods Hole and Nantucket Salvage Company. I think I'm about to contact some people who investigate possible fraud.”

“Good idea. Bring in the pros.”

She had a concerned look on her face. “Your nose isn't going to be out of joint, is it? I mean, you're the one
who got us going on this thing. Now, some other guys may go with it and maybe get the credit.”

I almost laughed, but she looked so serious that I managed not to. “No,” I said. “My nose isn't going to be out of joint. I'm not in the cop business any longer. What's more, in a couple of weeks, I'm going to be a married man, and I plan on concentrating on that, not on Glen Gordon and his friends. Your investigators can have the job.”

And I meant it, too. At least until I got home and heard what Quinn had to say.

Dave was sleeping in the yard on the plastic lounger that I'd gotten for almost nothing in a yard sale. It's amazing what some people will throw away or sell for peanuts. I have a lot of it around my place.

Quinn was on the phone and had a pile of notes in front of him. He looked cheerful. In spite of his claims that he was born to be retired, Quinn was happiest when he was plying his trade. He waved at me, talked some more, and put down the phone.

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“The New Bedford, Woods Hole and Nantucket Salvage Company doesn't seem to have any assets but a telephone in a rented room and a mailbox. You don't seem shocked. On the other hand, it's a legit outfit as far as the law is concerned. It's got two members: Cecil Jones and Marilyn Grimes. Nobody else. The phone is hooked to an answering machine that I got every time I tried it. The room is over in Falmouth. Here's the address. How did I get that information? I have friends in various organizations who owe me little favors. Friends who owe favors or want them are a reporter's best buddies.”

“I have some news for you, too,” I said, and I told him about Glen Gordon being Cecil Jones.

“Well, well,” said Quinn.

“Have you found Denise Vale?” I asked.

“No. Is finding her high on your list of priorities?”

“All I know is that Kathy Ellis was a friend of Glen Gordon, or Cecil Jones, or whoever he's calling himself these days, that she had a Vineyard Haven National Bank checking account with a lot of money in it, that she took the money out and Cecil Jones deposited it in his salvage company account over on the Cape, and that now Kathy is dead. The same is true of Denise Vale, except so far Denise is only missing. What does that make you think?”

“That Denise Vale is missing because she's also dead?”

“It seems to be a possibility.”

“At the hands of . . .?”

“Cecil Jones seems to have ended up with the money.”

“Cherchez la gelt.” Quinn nodded. “Glen, as Cecil, gets the gold, and the girls get the ax. Or in this case, the poison.”

“Sex, greed, or fear were motives for most of the murders I know about.”

Quinn looked through his notes. “Here we are. Denise Vale didn't show up for work at the Fireside over the weekend. That means she's been missing for at least a week. Plenty of time to get herself killed.”

I nodded. “Or to go to Rio de Janeiro, or to start writing the great American novel, or to do a lot of other things, or have a lot of other things happen to her.”

Quinn nodded. “Keerect, partner. One never knows, does one?” His fingers worked their way through some more notes. “I do have some stuff about her. Called her
folks. First Mom, then Dad. Told them I was doing a feature on the careers of some typical NYU grads. Got the usual stuff—year of graduation; major—Denise was in business administration, by the way. A very sharp student; interests—Denise was interested in the theater for a while and in making money all of the time. But she's had a hard time finding work in these tough times, so she's been doing a little of this and a little of that. Jealous dad, protective mom—you know about that. I got the impression that she plays one off against the other when it serves her purposes to do it. Right now, she seems to be sided with Mom.

“Did you know she lived for a while with our friend Glen Gordon? Her senior year, apparently. Lived in the dorm her first two years, then had her own apartment, then lived with him in his.”

“Did you talk to anybody at the dorm?”

“No. Why?”

“Her mom mentioned some problem there, but never said what it was.”

“According to what I hear,” said Quinn, “college students have three main kinds of problems: roommate problems, parent problems, and problems with boyfriends and girlfriends. Academic problems are last on the list. Usually, if somebody flunks out, it's because of one of the first three problems. But I'll check it out.

“Nothing to explain how she managed to get all that money into her checking account, by the way. That's about all I got on Denise.”

He went through more notes. “Ah, here's Kathy Ellis. Nice girl. Middle-class people. Both schoolteachers. She was the romantic, idealistic type, according to her parents. Vegetarian, peace movements, Victorian- poetry,
theater, that sort of thing. Very nice, but the kind who loves not wisely but too well. Broke up with her high school beau when she went to college. Shattered her Freshman Heart. Met you know who—Glen Gordon—at a college theater production. He was doing the lights or something technical, and she was an actress. She was swept away. Brought him home over a holiday. Her parents liked him.

“No explanation for the money in her account. Her parents were shocked when I suggested that she had a good deal of dough, since she was working and saving every penny for college. An unsolved mystery.

“Now, here's our friend Glen ‘Gordy' Gordon. A real charmer, according to everybody I talked to. Smart, too. Majored in math and computers. Went to work for Frazier Information Systems in New Jersey. Last year, he transferred up here to Hyannis. Kathy Ellis was pretty happy when he did, since she was working here on the island for the summer. They dated steadily. When she died, I hear that he was really broken up.”

I had heard the same thing from Beth Goodwin. “What did you learn about FIS?”

Quinn lifted a thumb. “Straight-arrow outfit. Fine reputation. They do accounting work for various firms, and have connections with a lot of banks in the North Atlantic region. Glen Gordon is a rising star, apparently. Has a real touch for the trade.” His mouth kinked at one corner. “Of course they probably never heard of Cecil Jones or the New Bedford etcetera Salvage Company, so their perception of old Gordy might not be as sharp as maybe yours or maybe mine.”

“Why did he transfer up to Hyannis?”

“Something about liking the area, and there being a
guy up here who wanted to go down there. They sort of traded places. FIS is pretty big on being flexible, as you know.”

“Do you know where he's living on the Cape?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. It helps to have tipsters working for the phone company. If I can get his number, I can get his address. He's got an apartment in Woods Hole, about two jumps from the steamship authority docks.”

Some recollection was working in the back of my head. I couldn't quite grasp it, but it seemed to me that it would help me if I could get a hand on it. I set the hounds of my brain to track down the elusive memory, and returned to Quinn.

“Is Gordy at home?” I asked.

“Just his answering machine. Incidentally, I notice that you don't have one of your own. What are you, a communications Neanderthal or something? Everybody has an answering machine these days.”

Just then, the phone rang.

“It's for me,” said Quinn. “I left your number with some people.” He put the phone to his ear. “Quinn here.” He listened, then said, “Just a minute,” and handed the phone to me.

Bonzo was calling from the Fireside. “Hey, J.W., how you doing?”

“I'm doing okay, Bonzo. What's up?”

“Well, I'm at work here, you know, sweeping up and like that, and you know what?”

“No. What?”

“You remember that girl you came in here looking for?”

“Denise Vale?”

“Yeah, Denise. Well, you know you were looking for her and she wasn't here, then you and that man got into that fight? Well, guess what?”

“What?”

“She's here again. She's back at work. Denise is working here right this very now.”

I thanked him, hung up, and looked at Quinn. “The girl we buried has risen from her grave. Denise Vale is back on the island.”

Dave Greenstein was getting pretty toasted when I left the house. I suggested to Quinn that he either put an umbrella over him or wake him up and have him come inside. Otherwise, Dave would be so sunburned when he got back to Boston that he'd have to take another vacation to recover.

In Oak Bluffs, I found a parking place at the far end of Circuit Avenue and walked back to the Fireside. It was lunchtime, but most people don't go to the” Fireside to eat unless they plan to pig out on bar food and beer. Not a bad meal, come to think of it.

There were half a dozen men sitting at tables drinking, and I saw Bonzo in the back room, taking rubbish out to the barrels behind the building. There was a woman behind the bar polishing glasses and setting them where she could get at them again when she needed them. The Fireside wasn't the kind of place where a lot of people drank their beer out of glasses, but there were always exceptions to the rule. The woman no longer had the freshman glow that she'd had in her father's photograph, but when I looked at her carefully I could see that she was Denise Vale.

I sat down at the bar and ordered a bottle of Sam Adams and, just to show I wasn't an ordinary guy, a glass to go with it. When she came back with the beer, I said, “Glad to see you back. Your dad was getting worried.”

She looked at me. Her voice, when she spoke, had no more expression than her face. “Who are you?”

“J.W. Jackson. I've been looking for you.”

“Well, now you can stop looking.” She moved back to her towel and glasses.

I got up and moved to a stool closer to her. “You've been gone for a week, Denise. Lots of people have been worried about you. Your dad, your roommates. Where have you been?”

She didn't look up or pause in her polishing. “I'm a big girl. People don't have to worry about me. I had some business to take care of, and now I'm back. That's the whole story. You go back and tell that to my loving daddy.”

“What kind of business?”

“None that's any of yours. Go drink your beer and let me do my work.”

I drank some of my Sam Adams. Still America's finest bottled beer.

“I'd really like to know where you've been, Denise. And there's another thing. I'm trying to get a line on a friend of yours, a guy named Glen Gordon, also known as Gordy. I thought maybe you could give me some information about him.”

“You thought wrong.”

“You can talk to me or you can talk to other people. The cops, maybe.”

That feeble ploy got me a glance, at least. “What are you talking about? Why would the cops want to talk with me?”

A good question, actually. “Glen Gordon had a girlfriend named Kathy Ellis. Last week Kathy ended up dead. Poisoned. When a woman is killed, the first people
the cops like to talk to are husbands and boyfriends. Glen Gordon and you were close, and maybe you still are. Ergo, when the cops decide to talk to Glen, they'll want to talk to you, too.”

Denise kept on polishing glasses, but now she was looking at me. “What makes you think Kathy Ellis was killed? I heard that it was an accident. That she was” always eating wild plants and that this time she ate the wrong thing.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You knew Kathy, too, so that's another reason the cops will want to talk to you.”

Two customers came in and sat at the end of the bar. She went and got their orders. Two beers, of course. No glasses. When she'd served them, she came back to me.

“If the cops wanted to talk to me, they'd have done it by now.”

“I don't think they know what I know about the tie-ins between you and Glen and Kathy, but they will as soon as I tell them. Of course, I may not have to tell them.”

“You mean you're the only one who knows?”

“So far,” I lied.

She thought for a while, then she said, “Look, Glen Gordon and I haven't been together for a long time, so I can't tell you anything about him. I heard he had another girl, but I didn't know he was seeing Kathy Ellis. The other thing you want to know is where I've been. Well, I've been over in New Bedford. There's another man in my life now, and I've been over there with him. We had a row awhile back and we needed some time to patch it up.” She stopped polishing and looked at me hard. “That's what you wanted to know, isn't it? Now you don't have to go to the cops. I don't need to have the cops in my life right now.”

“There are a few other things we need to talk about, Denise.”

“What, for God's sake? Look, I've got work to do.” She gestured. Sure enough, more customers were coming in.

“Do you know a man named Cecil Jones?”

“Excuse me.” She went along the bar and served more beer to the newcomers, then came back. “Who'd you say?”