Vineyard Stalker (11 page)

Before anyone could speak, I said, “Roland, your sister has asked me to tell you not to say anything until she and her lawyer get here.”

“You two leave right now,” said Dom, waving a large forefinger at Ann and me. “Mr. Nunes, I'm Sergeant Agannis. I'd like to talk to you. Olive, did you Mirandize him? Good. Let's step over here, Mr. Nunes.”

Ann and I moved one direction and Agannis, Olive, and Nunes moved the opposite way and stopped beyond our hearing.

“I knew Melissa Carson,” said Ann. “She led a pretty active life. Did she put the moves on you yesterday? It would have been just like her.”

“I didn't take her too seriously. Zee is woman enough for me. I liked Melissa, though. She was smart and had a lot of moxie.”

“Did Nunes know her? He's a good-looking guy and he lived right next door.”

“You'll have to ask him.”

She studied my face, then smiled.

“Oh,” she said.

We hadn't been an item for a long, long time, but she could still read me pretty well.

A car stopped on the pavement and a guy with a necktie stepped out. Carole Cohen was the driver, and another man was in the front passenger seat. I guessed that the man who got out was her lawyer. I was right. As Carole drove on, looking for a parking place, the man walked directly to Dom, Olive, and Roland Nunes and did his best to bring their conversation to a halt.

A few minutes later, Carole and the other man came trotting back along the roadside. Carole looked a bit hot and bothered. I didn't think she'd get any cooler when she learned that I'd told Dom about the vandals, and I was right. When I fessed up, she was furious.

“I told you to say nothing! I thought I could trust you!”

“I'm a disappointment to a lot of people,” I said, “but in this case the secret hasn't been a secret since yesterday when I spilled the beans to the neighbors just in case one of them was behind the vandalism. Remember our talk? We wanted them to know we had those photos so they'd be scared off.”

“But now the police know!”

“And they'll get the information again as soon as they interview Rob Chadwick and Babs Carson. Better they don't think we're hiding anything.”

She got hold of herself, but she was still annoyed. “Maybe you're right.”

The man with her finally managed to get in a word. “I'm Jordan Cohen,” he said, putting out his hand. He had a firm grip. I gave him my name and said, “Of course, we're still withholding some things. Or at least I am. I haven't mentioned Jed Mullins or said anything about Melissa jumping Roland's bones, because Mullins might be squeezed enough to reveal his separate peace, and any lover is a suspect in a murder case.”

The last of her anger became concern. “Can we keep that from them?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “Babs Carson knows about Melissa and Roland, and sooner or later somebody's going to remember that Mullins and Roland are close. It's only a matter of time.”

“I know my brother didn't do this!”

Considering the seventy-five Vietnamese that Nunes had killed long ago, I wasn't sure that another killing was an impossible act for him. I didn't think the police would have much trouble deciding that it wasn't.

“I don't think he's in any danger of being arrested right away,” I said. “The police will have to ask a lot more questions and there's lab work to be done before anyone can be charged, if it turns out that this is a murder and not death by some other cause.”

“You mean it might not be murder?” asked Jordan Cohen.

“The police are acting like they're pretty sure, but I didn't see it happen.”

I looked and saw the little cluster of people consisting of Dom, Olive, Roland Nunes, and the lawyer beginning to break up, with Dom and Olive watching as Nunes and the lawyer came toward us. Carole Cohen embraced her brother.

“You didn't tell them anything, did you?”

He brushed back her hair with one hand and smiled. “Nothing that seemed to help them.”

“You shouldn't have told them anything,” said the lawyer. “From now on, don't say anything unless I'm with you.”

Nunes looked down at his sister with serious eyes. “They asked me if Melissa Carson visited me last night, and I said yes, but that she hadn't stayed long. They asked me how long she'd been there and when she'd left. I told them I don't have a watch or clock, but that it was after dark. They asked me if we were or ever had been lovers and I told them yes. They asked me if we'd argued and I said no. They asked me if I'd gotten angry and I said no. They asked me if she'd gotten angry and I said I didn't think so. They asked me where she went when she left and I said she'd walked this direction along the ancient way and that I presumed she was going home. They asked some of these questions several times and then Mr. Sharkey here arrived and told me not to talk anymore.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “The truth can hurt but I don't think it did this time.”

I thought but didn't say that it could hurt more than he guessed.

Sharkey didn't think anything should be said to the police unless he was there and said it was okay.

“Did she have a flashlight with her?” I asked.

Sharkey glared but Nunes said, “Yes. She came with the last of the daylight, but she used it when she left.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No.”

“That's enough,” said Sharkey to Nunes. “I want you to say nothing more, not even to your sister. If you have something to say, say it to me and I'll decide who else should hear it.”

Nunes gave him an enigmatic look, then turned back to me. “Mr. Sharkey wants me to go with him to his office so we can talk in private. Will you do me a favor?”

“If I can.”

“You know where I've been working. Go there and tell Milt Jorgensen that I won't be coming to the site today. Tell him why, if he asks.”

“No, don't tell him why,” said Sharkey sharply. “Just tell him that something has come up. Come along now, please, Mr. Nunes. Carole, Jordan, let's go to your car.”

“Tell him I'll be there tomorrow,” said Nunes before he turned and walked away with his escort.

I went over to Dom and Olive. “Do you know any lawyer jokes?” I asked.

“Sharkey isn't a joke,” said Dom. “It's gonna cost the Cohens a few bucks to hire that guy. I noticed you gabbing over there. You learn anything we don't know?”

“I learned Melissa had a flashlight when she left Nunes. Maybe that means she didn't plan to spend the night.”

“Wild guesses are your specialty.”

“Yeah. Nunes says he didn't see anybody else around, but I'd like to know where the vandals were when this happened.”

“Why would they want to kill Melissa Carson?”

“I have no idea. I've been wondering if one of her ex-lovers might be the perp. She had a lot of them, apparently.”

“You know any of the names? Save us the trouble of tracking them down for ourselves?”

I shook my head. “Not a one. You're on your own.”

With thoughts running around through my brain like chickens with their heads cut off, I walked to my truck and drove to the building site in Chilmark where I'd found Nunes working. The view of the pond was still beautiful and I once again decided that if I didn't live where I lived I'd live in Chilmark if I had a choice. With its hills and ponds it's the prettiest township on the island; its only disadvantage is that it's fifteen miles from the nearest liquor store.

Milt Jorgensen was leaning over blueprints spread out on the hood of his pickup. When I introduced myself, he seemed reluctant to take the time to talk with me, but he was polite about it. I told him that Nunes wouldn't be coming to work today.

“Too bad. He's a good worker. Not sick, is he?”

“No. Something came up unexpectedly. He should be back tomorrow.” I paused, then said, “His sister has hired me to help her deal with some vandalism that's occurred at Roland's place. Maybe you can help me.”

“Vandalism? Roland's never mentioned it.”

I told him what I'd been told and what I'd seen and done.

His eyes widened “Jesus,” he said. “You were shot? Have you gone to the police? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine and the police know about it,” I said. “I'm talking with everybody I can think of, trying to find out who might have hired those guys. You've been working with Roland for a while. Does he have any enemies that you know of? Anyone with a grudge? Anyone who doesn't get along with him?”

He shook his head. “He's never been in an argument or even raised his voice to anybody while he's been working for me. He's the quietest guy I've ever seen. Not unfriendly or anything like that, just quiet. The crew likes working with him. He'll do anything you ask him to, and do it well. He hasn't got an enemy in the world.”

“He seems to have at least one.”

“I can't imagine who it could be.”

I tried cynicism. “He sounds too good to be true.”

Jorgensen frowned at me. “I know what you mean, but he's the real thing. Nothing put on or fake. I've been working with people all my life and I know a fake when I meet one. He's the real McCoy.”

“That's my impression, too,” I said. It was true, but I'd been fooled before. Besides, I didn't believe in saints.

I thanked him and drove back down-island.

At home our lawn needed mowing, so I did that first and then phoned John Skye and asked him if he'd heard anything about the cat food from George Faulk, up at Weststock. John said no. Then I phoned Sam, down at the photo shop in Edgartown, and asked if his friend had had any luck cleaning the camouflage off the prowler's face. Sam said yes and I said I'd be right down.

I finally found a parking place at the far end of South Summer Street and walked back downtown dodging people decked out in tourist clothes and wearing cameras hung around their necks. They looked happy and full of energy and were busily looking this way and that as they admired the village's bright gardens and wandered in and out of shops.

The photo shop was busy with people having photos developed from their digital cameras, so I had to wait my turn before Sam was finally free to show me the results of his friend's work. I was surprised that the face that now looked out of the photos was so clear. It was as though it had never been camouflaged at all. It was a young face, clean-shaven, with careful eyes and slightly pursed lips. Its owner appeared to be listening and looking intently as he did his work. I had never seen him before.

“You ever see this guy?” I asked Sam.

He shook his head. I had him make me a second set of pictures plus a dozen copies of the best shot of the man's face. I put the twelve copies in my shirt pocket, left the other pictures in the truck, and walked up Main Street to Prada Realty, where I was lucky enough to find Sally Oliver in her office. She was not anxious to talk with me but on the other hand she wanted to handle the sale of my land if such a sale ever occurred, so she put on her best professional face when I handed her one of the refurbished photos. She looked and shook her head.

“I've never seen him,” she said. “Who is he?”

“The vandal. I don't know his name yet.”

I left her and walked to Gull Realty just in case Carole or Jordan Cohen had finished their meeting with her brother and their lawyer. They hadn't, so I peeked in her phone-book and found a Paul Sharkey listed under Lawyers in the yellow pages.

Sharkey's office was in Vineyard Haven, above one of those stores that changes hands every summer or two so a new renter can try to sell enough goods to pay for the outrageous rent the building's owner requires and still make a profit. Not an easy thing to do. I parked in the Stop & Shop parking lot and a bit later walked into Sharkey's waiting room.

His receptionist was a middle-aged woman with well-pinned gray hair and a face that was at once friendly and rather guarded. There was a small nameplate on her desk identifying her as Yvonne Yeats.

I told her my name and she told me that Mr. Sharkey was unavailable at the moment but that she would be glad to make an appointment for me.

I nodded toward the closed door at the end of the room and said I thought her boss and his clients would want to see me. “Tell them I have a photo that might interest them,” I said, tapping my shirt pocket.

She eyed me with mistrust, which suggested that I didn't look much like most of Sharkey's clients. Maybe I should make a return visit to the thrift shop to get some new clothes.

“I was with them earlier this morning,” I said. “Just tell them I'm here. If they don't want to see me, I'll leave, no questions asked.”

“Very well.”

She got up and went to the door where she tapped lightly then went into the room. A moment later she stepped out, smiled doubtfully, and waved me in.

Jordan and Carole Cohen and Roland Nunes were seated at a large table, and Paul Sharkey was coming toward me, hand extended. I shook it.

“You have a photograph, I understand.”

I gave a copy to him and one to each of his clients.

“This is the vandal,” I said. “Sans camouflage, thanks to another miracle of modern science. Does he look familiar to any of you?”

They studied the face and shook their heads. I wasn't surprised.

“Well, keep the face in mind just in case you run into the guy by accident,” I said. “I'll get out of your hair.” I went back into the receptionist's office, smiled at Yvonne Yeats, and descended the stairs to Main Street. The Bunch of Grapes bookstore had Bill Tapply's latest novel in the window. I was tempted but too cheap to buy it. I'd get a copy from the library.

I drove to Oak Bluffs and went into the state police office on Temahigan Avenue as Olive Otero came out of a back room. We greeted one another with a friendliness that still seemed strange after our years of bickering. I gave her a set of the photos and two extra copies of my favorite photo of the vandal, and said, “These are computer-enhanced pictures of the photo Dom got from me this morning. You ever see this guy?”