Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (21 page)

EPILOGUE

J.L. Chamberlain
and I were in the wine cellar at Owl's Head. We were alone. Outside, the sky
was clear, the wind calm. It was an unusually hot summer day in Maine. The
temperature in the cellar was cool and comfortable. A bottle of cognac and two
snifters sat on the old, hand-hewn wooden table.

Arriving in
Boston three days ago, I rented a car and retraced the route to Rockland Sandy
Rinaldi and I had driven almost three months ago. Driving through the wonderful
country, I thought about Jeff, Jr. He had cleaned up his act, gotten into
tremendous physical shape and reported early to football training camp at
Mississippi State. His head coach told me that he expected great things from
the kid. In some way I hoped I'd been a positive influence.

Henry arranged
for me to have my old room at the Navigator Inn. The motel was full of summer
vacationers. I was lucky to get the room, but it was unpleasant with all the
other people around.

Hoping to see
Mable, Henry informed me that she had moved permanently to Newfoundland.

Returning to
Rockland was a sad occasion. It was to attend the funeral of Kathleen
Chamberlain. It was a nice funeral, if such a thing can be said of this
barbaric ritual. I was here not for the dead, but to support J.L. We had become
good friends. The service and burial was yesterday. Now, after all the well
wishers had gone, the ritualism over, J.L. wanted to get drunk. He wanted me to
get drunk with him. I thought it an excellent idea.

Lighting a
single white candle, J.L. poured the pale gold liquid into the snifters.
Picking up the fresh bundle of El Credito, Charlemagnes, I brought as a gift,
he opened the package, and handed me one of the big cigars.

"What are
you going to do if we run out of cognac?"

"Well,
there's always this sherry." He patted the huge barrel lying in the wooden
chocks."

I laughed.

We lit the cigars
in silence. The blue smoke rose slowly to the roof of the cellar, floated
softly among the rafters. I often wondered about the hours a man sits alone,
watching the smoke of a cigar, thinking. What great ideas have come from such
hours? When a man thinks, there is a fire alive in his brain. It is proper that
he should have the burning end of a good cigar as his one focal point.

"I'm sorry
about Kathleen, J.L. She was a fine woman. It was a pleasure to have known her,
even for the short time that I did."

"Thank you,
Jay. Kathleen died quietly, and bravely. To me, that was the true measure of
her character. She was a fun woman; we laughed a lot together. More important,
though, we laughed a great deal toward the end."

"I admire your
candor in this situation."

J.L. sat down,
propped his feet up on the table. "One must not lose his sense of humor in
the face of death." He paused, twirled the cigar between his fingers, and
looked up at the blue smoke. "I have learned much on this journey."

I did not know
how to reply. Instead, I took a big sip of the cognac, welcomed the harsh, hot,
burning feeling in my mouth, waited for the smoky, wood, and caramel flavors to
work their way to my olfactory system, anticipated the taste the cigar would
add. It is what I did instead of saying anything.

"Sandy's
trial is scheduled in about a month. You'll be getting a summons."

"I'm
prepared, my notes are in good shape. I have been over the facts of the case a
hundred times."

"Good. I
understand she's hired some heavy hitters from New Orleans to defend her."

"It was
sad, what her brother was doing to her."

J.L. twirled the
cognac around in the glass, then inhaled deeply. "Saved her from a life of
prostitution and drugs, taught her the art business. He wouldn't leave it
alone. They made a lot of money dealing stolen art to the wise guys, but Nat
kept blowing it. The collapse of the insurance company is what triggered
Sandy's rage. We'll probably never know."

"You're
right. After coming back from having sunk so low, and finally making something
of herself, she couldn't handle losing everything. Knowing that her brother,
who she had grown to hate, was responsible, put her over the edge."

"The
records show most of the money from the insurance company was being skimmed
off. Where it went...it's anybody's guess. Mostly to Anastasio's people, I presume.
We know, now, that Sandy wasn't in on the cut. If she had been maybe none of
this would have happened."

Reaching over, I
poured more cognac in both snifters. "I never understood her hiring Guy
Robbins to settle Nat's estate? She could have done it herself."

"It was for
legitimacy she hired your friend."

"What do
you mean?"

"If she
used a professional, an attorney, it would legitimize collecting on the insurance.
It came to a pretty good sum, remember?"

"Yes,” I
said, thinking back. "Her brother had a double indemnity policy worth
three million, plus the half million in missing cash was insured."

"A good
sum? You bet,” J.L. said, knocking ashes off his cigar. "If she got the
three mill, plus the insurance payoff on the four hundred and fifty thousand,
and added it to the cash she'd gotten off Nat the night she killed him, and
what she'd get from selling the art collection...add it up."

"Close to
six million, if she carefully pieced out the Kent collection. Not bad."

We drank in
silence for awhile. The cognac was starting to work its way into my
bloodstream. It was a good feeling.

"The way
Nat Rinaldi's body drifted around to Tenant's Harbor, did that all check
out?"

"Yes,” J.L.
said, sitting up straight. "We checked the tides, currents, winds, etc. It
could have worked. She met Nat at the Rockland airport and rode back down to
Port Clyde with him. Bilotti met them with the van containing the art
collection. She looked it over, and then they all three got back into Nat's car
and discussed money. She probably suggested that she speak with Nat, alone,
about the deal. They walked down to the end of the dock. She shot him and he
fell into the water. The muffling effect of the silencer kept Bilotti from hearing
the noise. Walking back to the car, she shot Bilotti, took the cash, and drove
the van back to the Rockland airport. Then she unloaded the art collection into
the Hansa Jet, then parked the empty van in the lot."

"Good
plan."

"For an
amateur. Anastasio was right, one should leave murder to the pros."

"Did he get
the Kent art collection back to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes?"

"Yes, it
was returned. He even deposited a good sum of money in their bank account.
They'll be comfortable."

"Anastasio
really doesn't want the publicity, does he?"

"Would
you?"

"What about
the gun? Does the DA think she can get it admitted?"

"She's
going to try, but it's doubtful. The circumstances of the recovery is way too
convoluted. If Sandy's confession is allowed, the weapon might be irrelevant,
though every bit of evidence is essential."

We drank again
in silence, the cognac working its charm, making life easy.

J.L. raised his
glass. "To the future, Jay. It ain't what it used to be, and what's more,
it never was."

Then I heard it.
From somewhere above, the old civil war song, LORENA, wafted softly down into
the wine cellar of a place called Owl's Head. If music was emotion and emotion
came from thought, then this was the lament of the soul, the song of the
rational, of joy, of man's eternal endurance.

I lifted my
glass to J.L. Chamberlain.

THE END

Thank you for reading
Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Series)
by JC Simmons

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Overlook
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Check out all 10
books in

The
Jay
Leicester Mysteries
Series
by
JC Simmons
:

Blood
on the Vine
Some
People Die Quick

Blind
Overlook
Icy
Blue Descent
The
Electra File
Popping
the Shine
Four
Nines Fine
The
Underground Lady
Akel
Dama
The
Candela of Cancri

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