Amagansett (8 page)

Conrad killed the engine. ‘It’s me, Conrad,’ he called, stepping down from the truck.

‘Bed,’ snapped Sam, and his dog scuttled back inside. ‘You near scared hell outta me.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in hell.’

‘Are you crazy? I live it most days.’

Conrad smiled, stepping into the swathe of light thrown by the kerosene lamps inside.

Sam squinted at him. ‘You been brawlin’?’

‘I guess.’

‘Get yourself in here. I’ll fix you something to stop that eye closing up.’

‘Forget it, it’s okay.’

‘Easy for you to say, you don’t got to look at you.’

Half an hour later Conrad was sitting in a chair, a compress strapped to his eye, the pad smeared with some pulpy substance concocted by Sam from the strange herbs and weeds he always had to hand.

Conrad glanced around the single-room shack while Sam clattered away in the corner, clearing up the residue of his preparations, always clearing up. Little had changed in all the years Conrad had known the place. The old double-barreled ten-gauge
with the rabbit-ear hammers still hung above the mantel on pegs, loaded, ready for action. The surface of the pine table was, as ever, scrubbed white with wood ash lye, clean enough for a surgical operation, the chairs neatly tucked in around it. A curtain embroidered by Sam’s wife just before her death shielded the sleeping area with its iron bed from the main body of the room.

The only notable additions in the past two decades were a good-quality battery radio set and a framed photo of Billy in military uniform, both on the side table next to the old captain’s chair where Sam spent a good deal of his time. Taken by some backstreet photographer in Manila, the grainy image had been posted home by Billy, along with a letter. They had arrived at Lazy Point, the letter partially censored, two weeks after the Western Union telegram announcing Billy’s death in combat.

Sam shuffled over with two glasses of clear liquid and thrust one into Conrad’s hand. ‘Potato grog. One of my best yet.’

It burned a streak down Conrad’s gullet. Sam lowered himself into his chair and set about packing his pipe.

‘How’s the hip?’ asked Conrad.

‘Better this time of year, I can stir around more, do a little net fishing. Sand dabs is running strong right now.’ Sam looked up. ‘If you knows where to look,’ he added mischievously.

Conrad stared at his old friend and felt an overwhelming sense of sadness: alone in the world, his wife and son gone, his body failing him, clinging to what little dignity his circumstances allowed him. He knew Sam was having difficulty making the payments on his lease to the Town Trustees, that there was talk of moving him out of the house.

As he lit the pipe, Sam glanced up, his drawn eyes reading Conrad’s look. ‘It ain’t so bad,’ he said.

‘I can help.’

‘I don’t want no charity from any man.’

‘I’m not just any man.’

Sam hesitated. ‘No.’

‘I’ll see you good with the Trustees till spring.’

‘Can’t do it.’

Conrad’s lone eye flicked over to the photo of Billy on the side table, drawing Sam’s gaze with it. ‘That last summer he fished on shares with my father,’ said Conrad. ‘You remember? Couldn’t put an oar in the water without striking a bluefish.’

Sam smiled. ‘Yeah, Billy done real good that year.’

‘Should have done a whole lot better.’

Sam looked at him long and hard, drawing on his pipe. He exhaled slowly. ‘It’s a fool bends a dead man’s name to his own ends, good or bad—a ten-fold fool if that man’s his father.’

‘Name me one Cap who didn’t split a catch his own way given half a chance, not when there’s more than enough to go round.’ Conrad paused briefly. ‘I fought him on it, would’ve done the right thing by Billy at the time if I could have.’

‘Would’ve if you could’ve,’ said Sam for no apparent reason.

‘Now I can.’

Sam didn’t say anything for a few moments. ‘Spring it is…when the swamp maples flower.’

Conrad nodded.

‘Now why don’t you tell me why you really come here.’

He should have known Sam would see it in him; the man missed nothing. He sneaked another sip of the home brew, stalling for time.

‘You’re hurtin’, that much is sure, and I don’t mean them bruises.’

Conrad knew that once he’d spoken there’d be no turning back, his course would be set.

‘They killed a friend of mine,’ he said.

Sam removed the pipe from between his teeth. ‘Who?’

‘I don’t know who.’

‘I mean the friend.’

Conrad hesitated. ‘A girl. A woman.’

‘Do I know her?’

‘No.’

‘What kind of friend?’

‘A good friend.’ He felt the pain welling in his gut, and he fought to keep it there. ‘They say she drowned swimming in the ocean, but she didn’t.’

‘I hear the currents is awful tricky right now.’

‘She knew that.’

Conrad drew a long breath to steady himself. Then he told Sam how he’d explained the dangers of the shift in the longshore set to Lillian Wallace just a few hours before she supposedly went for that final swim.

He didn’t say that she had been lying in his arms at the time, in his bed, his house, or that she had laughed then kissed him, touched by his concern, when he made her swear by all she held dear that she wouldn’t swim off the ocean beach again until he told her it was safe to do so.

The turning area was jammed with cars, and Hollis was obliged to park up along the driveway, the offside wheels on the verge. Amongst the vehicles jostling for space in front of the house was a florist’s van, its green-and-gold livery discreetly proclaiming a Park Avenue address. The rear doors were open, revealing an assortment of wreaths and other floral displays on wooden racks.

As he approached the entrance porch, the front door swung open and an elaborate arrangement of pink, yellow and white roses stepped from the house. A casket spray, thought Hollis, moving aside to allow the young man a clear passage through to the van. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of fresh-cut flowers shipped up from the city so the Wallaces could make their selection on site—a small fortune destined to go to waste, the funeral still five days off.

Hollis glanced at the bell-pull, but decided against it, crossing the threshold unannounced, making straight for the kitchen in the east wing.

She was busying herself at the counter, topping and tailing green beans, and didn’t see him enter.

‘Hello, Rosa.’

She turned suddenly, startled.

‘The door was open. Are the Wallaces in?’

Rosa laid the knife aside and began to untie her apron strings.

‘It’s okay, I’ll find my own way.’

He headed for the door on the far side of the room, pausing as he passed the oven. ‘Lamb?’

‘Beef.’

‘Never had much of a nose.’

He made to leave, hesitated, as if stopped in his tracks by an afterthought. ‘Oh, the gardener. What’s his name?’

‘Derek.’

‘Derek…?’

‘Watson.’

‘Is he in today?’

‘Yes.’

‘Every day?’

‘Not weekends.’

‘What time does he work till?’

‘Five o’clock.’

Hollis nodded, then left the kitchen.

Guided by the sound of voices, he found himself in the drawing room. He had passed through it on his last visit, but had failed to appreciate the enormity of the space, his mind on other matters then. Some forty feet in length, a run of French windows gave on to the back terrace, which was shaded by a vine-woven pergola, bunches of grapes dangling above a long table draped in a white tablecloth and set for lunch.

The room was effectively divided into three by a central seating area—an overstuffed sofa and armchairs, all upholstered in matching blue damask, which fronted the marble fireplace. To his left, a woman was seated at a writing desk, speaking on the phone in thoughtful, grave tones. There were more ticks than crosses beside the names and accompanying telephone numbers on the list lying before her.

‘I’m afraid he’s not available right now,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course I shall. Yes. Until then. Goodbye, Mrs Elridge.’ Another tick. Her finger tapped the phone cradle, and she asked the operator to put her through to a number in Boston.

The far side of the room had been given over to a library, the walls lined with tall bookshelves. George and Manfred Wallace
were in discussion with a woman around a table laden with yet more flower arrangements, the florist taking notes in a file.

‘Richard,’ called George Wallace. ‘How many windows in the church?’

‘Ten,’ came a disembodied voice from the terrace. ‘Eleven including the apse.’

‘Ten or eleven?’ George Wallace turned irritably, catching sight of Hollis as he did so.

‘I tried to call,’ said Hollis. ‘The telephone was engaged.’ He moved deeper into the room. ‘I thought we should talk about the traffic. I imagine there’ll be a fair number of cars.’

Chief Milligan had assigned Hollis to the problem of congestion that would inevitably arise at a society funeral, issuing the order with relish, keen to point out that Hollis had done ‘such a damn good job on the Memorial Day parade’. To the Chief’s evident disappointment, Hollis hadn’t fought him on it. He welcomed anything that brought him into contact with the Wallaces right now.

‘Richard.’

A middle-aged man materialized from the terrace as if from the wings of a stage. There was a polish and grace about him that hovered on the edge of effeteness. Trim and slight, his dark hair was receding neatly at the temples. His features were clean and even. Keen dark eyes peered out on the world from behind goldrimmed spectacles that lent him a scholarly air, and a cigarette smoldered between his slender fingers. Hollis remarked that, despite the heat, his shirt remained buttoned, the knot of his necktie unloosened.

‘This is…’

Hollis took his cue from George Wallace, who had clearly forgotten his name. ‘Deputy Chief Hollis.’

‘He wants to talk about numbers at the funeral.’

The man approached, offering a hand. ‘Richard Wakeley.’

His grip was surprisingly firm. The smile appeared to be genuine.

‘Richard’s a friend of the family,’ said George Wallace. ‘He’ll fill you in.’

A courteous dismissal, if ever there was one.

‘Shall we?’ said Wakeley, steering Hollis towards the terrace.

‘Deputy Hollis.’ He turned to Manfred Wallace. ‘I’m sorry for the other day…at the morgue, I mean. I wasn’t myself.’

‘Forget it,’ said Hollis, aware that Manfred could well have said nothing and spared himself the look of mild astonishment from his father.

They strolled through the garden, sticking to the shade, Wakeley sipping homemade lemonade, Hollis regretting that he’d declined the offer of a glass.

The service was set to take place at the First Presbyterian Church on Main Street, the burial to follow immediately after at the Cedar Lawns Cemetery on Cooper Lane. This would mean traversing the railroad tracks at the top end of Newtown Lane, and Hollis made a mental note to contact the station master about train schedules. It wasn’t a grade-crossing—no danger of the Cannon Ball broadsiding a car-load of mourners—but it still wouldn’t look good if the barriers came down, sundering the long, creeping cortege as it wormed its way northwards.

Wakeley anticipated about two hundred people attending. Hollis pledged the full co-operation of both the East Hampton Town and Village police forces. Main Street, Cooper Lane and Further Lane would all have to be kept clear of cars so that the armada of vehicles could park. Moreover, every junction on the route would have to be manned by an officer holding up other traffic.

Wakeley appreciated the scale of the operation, graciously thanking Hollis for the inconvenience to which the force would be put. There was something reassuring, calming even, about the man—the mellifluous tones of his voice, the way in which he handled himself, deferring to Hollis’ expertise. He was a consummate manager of men, and certainly more than just a friend of the family, that much was clear. The silk necktie, the monogrammed shirt, the black leather Oxfords, all suggested a person on equal standing with the Wallaces; and yet the high-handed manner in which George Wallace had addressed him earlier spoke of a
different relationship. What was he exactly? Something less than a friend and peer; more than mere employee.

Hollis’ musings were interrupted by a piercing female scream. It was followed closely by a loud splash. They had strayed to the end of the garden where the swimming pool was located. More playful shrieks now emanated from behind the yew hedge that screened the pool on three sides. Hollis moved to take a better look.

‘Shall we head back?’ said Wakeley.

Hollis permitted himself two further steps, but they were enough.

Gayle Wallace was reclining on a lounge chair beside the pool, wearing a dark swimsuit, straw hat and sunglasses. She was smiling wistfully at the antics of an attractive young couple frolicking in the water. Another couple was seated on rattan chairs in the shade of an umbrella, sipping drinks.

‘Shall we?’ said Wakeley, more firmly. Hollis briefly locked eyes with Gayle as he turned and followed.

They were halfway back to the house when Gayle came hurrying up behind them.

‘Deputy Hollis.’ She had pulled on a light chiffon robe that barely concealed what lay beneath, not that it had ever been designed to do so. Even without shoes she was a shade taller than Hollis.

‘I just wanted to thank you for the recommendation—the funeral home, I mean.’

‘Funeral home?’

She frowned momentarily, then remembered and smiled. ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten.’ She turned her gaze on Wakeley. ‘Deputy Hollis isn’t supposed to make recommendations about such things, but you won’t tell anyone, will you, Wakeley?’

‘Of course not.’

Wakeley, thought Hollis—definitely more employee than friend.

‘Have they finished inside?’ asked Gayle.

There was nothing in the question that demanded a response. It was a thinly disguised order, and Wakeley read it as such.

‘I’ll see you before you go,’ he said to Hollis.

Gayle waited until he was out of earshot. ‘You needn’t worry, discretion’s his middle name.’

‘Oh, I don’t really care.’

‘No? Can’t they demote you or something?’

‘I suppose.’ He realized his honesty was starting to sound like swagger, or worse: self-pity. ‘Anyway, I’m glad I could help,’ he said.

‘There’s something I wanted to ask you.’

Of course there was. Why else had she dismissed Wakeley?

‘The fishermen who found my sister…found Lilly, I’d like to meet them, to thank them.’

‘The one to talk to is Conrad Labarde.’ He couldn’t see her getting much out of the Kemp boy. ‘He lives just back from the beach off Montauk Highway, beyond Napeague Lane. No address, but I don’t think there’s much else down there, just dunes.’

‘Do you mind writing it down for me?’ Hollis scribbled down the details, tore the sheet from the memo pad and handed it over.

‘You’re left-handed. Lilly was left-handed.’

He searched for something to say, but there was no need.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘I can take you over there if you like.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘To see the fisherman.’ It would be a good excuse to meet the big Basque again, survey his world, get more of a sense of the man.

‘It’s okay, I’m sure I can find my own way.’

She left, stepping lightly across the lawn, her long, narrow feet leaving impressions in the spongy grass.

Hollis returned to the house to find the florist and her assistant gone. George and Manfred Wallace were seated with Wakeley at the table on the terrace. All three nursed glasses of chilled white wine while Rosa moved around them, arranging cutlery.

‘I don’t suppose you’re allowed to,’ said Manfred, meaning the wine.

‘Maybe a glass of water.’

Rosa poured him a glass from a pitcher. No one spoke while he downed it, the silence oppressive, each gulp resounding in his ears.

‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘The Press.’

George Wallace frowned. ‘What about them?’

‘We’ll do our best to keep them at bay, but with limited resources…’

‘It’s a good point. Richard?’

‘I’ll get on to it,’ said Wakeley.

Hollis drained the rest of the water and placed the empty glass on the table. ‘I’ll be in touch in a few days once everything’s arranged.’ He turned to Rosa. ‘Thanks for the water.’

She met his look with something approaching defiance, enjoying the protection of her employer. This only confirmed his suspicions. She feared him, not in the way that many feared a police officer—irrationally, believing that the uniform somehow conferred on him the power to see into the dark caverns of their conscience. No, he had rumbled her in the kitchen, creeping up on her like that, surprising her. The momentary flash of apprehension in her eyes had betrayed her. She definitely knew more than she was letting on.

As he strolled around the side of the house, his mind was racing, filtering impressions. He could dismiss the gardener for now. Rosa had displayed no telling signs of unease when he’d sprung the subject of the old man on her. Whatever her secret, it was unlikely she shared it with—what was his name?—Derek, yes, Derek Watson.

He climbed into the patrol car, lit a cigarette, and added the name to his memo pad along with that of Richard Wakeley. It was an old habit. Names on a page obliged you to consider connections your mind might normally pass over, like deciphering a crossword anagram by writing the letters in a circle.

Watson and Wakeley side by side. It was an unlikely association, but you never knew, not till the affair had played itself out.

Hollis slowed as he passed the Clinton Academy, but his courage failed him at the last and he drove on down Main Street. Fifty yards along he was given the opportunity to reconsider.

Mary Calder was walking toward the center of town, stepping through the dappled shade cast by the tall elms. He drove past her then swung the wheel, carving a long turn and pulling up at the verge.

‘Maybe I’m mistaken,’ said Mary, ‘but wasn’t that an illegal maneuver?’

‘Was it?’

‘Bylaw 18, I think you’ll find.’

Shit, maybe he’d misjudged their last exchange; there was still no trace of a smile.

‘I’m on official police business,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

‘In pursuit of a suspect.’

She held up her hands in mock surrender. ‘I demand to see my lawyer.’ And there it was—the smile—clutching at his breast.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Home,’ she said. ‘For lunch.’

‘You want a ride?’

She glanced around her. ‘What ever will people say?’

‘You’re right. It’s more than your reputation’s worth.’

She laughed.

‘What?’

‘Well, you obviously know nothing about my reputation.’

True. He didn’t.

‘All right,’ she said suddenly, as if surprised by her decision. She crossed to the other side of the car and climbed into the passenger seat.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Three Mile Harbor Road.’

‘It’ll mean making another illegal maneuver.’

‘Not if you head up Dayton Lane there.’

This time she wasn’t joking.

The house was set some distance back from the road down a cinder track. It was a large, squat two-story farmhouse with a shed-roof extension on the side and two end-wall chimneys jutting from the
shingled roof. Behind it stood a barn, dwarfed by an enormous tree with a dark crown. Beyond lay a paddock—a neat square of pasture hacked out of the dense oak woods and enclosed by a white post-and-rail fence.