Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (7 page)

The voice
laughed. "You have quite an imagination, Mr. Leicester. All of this for
half a million? Come on! I pay my chauffeur that much a year."

"Maybe you
paid the shooter the half million to kill both men, used the art scam to throw
off the police?"

I was grabbing
at straws, but you never know.

"My
equipment shows your equipment is recording this conversation, Mr. Leicester. I
will say only this, the offer was legit. My man is dead, the art collection is
missing, and I have no half million. If you represent Miss Rinaldi, I suggest
we talk. I'll land at the Rockland airport tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. You
and Miss Rinaldi be there."

He hung up
before I could answer. It wasn't a request to meet the plane. I rubbed my back.

Looking at
Chamberlain, I said, "Can he do that?"

"What? Oh,
know if we're taping him?" He began to rewind the tape recorder.
"Yes, he can."

Laughing
uneasily, I stretched my back and neck, and promised myself to get abreast of
the latest in electronics. "What do you think?" I asked Chamberlain.

"I don't know.
It's hard to believe the man would make himself visible if it was merely for a
rip-off. He could still be running the bluff, or maybe we've been wrong about
this thing from the start."

"Could be,”
I answered, standing, putting my hands on my back and twisting from side to
side. "I guess we'll know after the meeting tomorrow. In the meantime, why
don't you get your people in Chicago to tell you all they know about 'Mr. Big,'
besides the fact he controls Chicago and everybody calls him, Don Gino. Also, you
get anything on the Waterbury couple who are staying at the Navigator?"

"I'm
expecting something today." He shut the tape recorder off, then he added,
"All my people are passing out the photos of Nat Rinaldi and Tony Bilotti.
Hopefully we can piece together their movements in the area. Any more
ideas?"

"Give me a
couple of sets of the photographs. I'm going back to Tenant's Harbor and Port
Clyde and poke around. I will show them around, ask some questions."

I did not know
if it would do any good, but at least it would give me some quiet time to think
about what I was going to say to Gino Anastasio tomorrow morning.

CHAPTER
TEN

Chamberlain gave
me two sets of the photographs of Tony Bilotti and Nat Rinaldi. Retracing our
drive back to Tenant's Harbor and Port Clyde, I again admired the Monticello
clone sitting, majestic, high on the grass-covered hill. Thomas Jefferson would
have smiled.

The noon
temperature was warm. The sky, a Gulf Stream blue. All of a sudden I felt
hungry and thought of the thick, creamy chowder at the East Wind Inn. Entering
the steep, winding drive down to the restaurant, through big, old, high-trunked
trees and grass that was green and smooth and newly mowed, I marveled at some
of the loveliest country in the world.

At the bottom of
the drive, far out into the bay, at the entrance to the ocean, an island sat
like a sailing ship at anchor, its trees like tall masts. There were no cars in
the parking lot. Early for lunch, I was the only customer. The chowder was even
better than before.

None of the
restaurant personnel remembered seeing either of the two men. The cashier said
I should check with the owner. The two men could have stayed at the Inn and not
eaten in the restaurant. It was good idea.

"I'd like
to speak with the owner,” I said to the silver-haired, elderly lady behind the
registration desk.

"What are
you selling, sonny boy?" She asked, looking at me with sparkling green
eyes and a wonderful, warm smile.

"Nothing,
looking for information,” I answered, reaching for the photos.

"Library's
in Rockland. They have lots of information there." Another mischievous
grin.

"I'm a
private investigator,” I said, laying the two photos on the black marble
countertop. "You remember seeing either of these two at the East
Wind?"

"Oh, that
one's dead,” she said, pointing to Bilotti. "Is he the one killed down at
Port Clyde?"

I had forgotten
the photo was taken in the morgue.

"Yes,
ma’am. I apologize for the picture, but it's the only one we have."

"Don't
worry about it. I'm a retired nurse." She pointed to a tiny pin on her
blouse. I had no idea what it meant. "My son owns this place. I live here
and help out with the front desk." She turned, held the photos up to the
sunlight. "You working with J.L. on this?"

Small towns, I
thought. They are all alike.

"Yes, we
are working together on this investigation,” I said, pointing to Rinaldi's
picture. "This one's sister hired me to find out what happened."

"I
know." She turned to face me with a fond, unsurprised gaze, eyes focused,
piercing. "Your client's from down south, New Orleans. Her name's Sandy.
An art dealer, I believe."

Taken aback, I
said, "How did you..."

She laughed with
a round-eyed, risible expression, and extended her hand. "I'm Betty
Anders. Kathleen Chamberlain and I are cousins. We visit every morning. She's dying,
you know?"

"Yes, J.L.
told me,” I said, still befuddled. "What about the photos?"

"No, I've
seen neither of these men." She spread the pictures on the countertop.
"Let me get my son, he should look at them, too."

Betty Anders disappeared
into the back, returning shortly with a man about my age who could not deny his
lineage. Gray-haired, short, same green, sparkling, mischievous eyes as his
mother.

He introduced
himself in a warm, friendly manner, looked closely at the photos, then at me.
"No, Mr. Leicester. These men have never been to the East Wind Inn. I wish
I could be of more help."

"Me, too,”
I said, gathering up the photos. "Thanks anyway. It was nice meeting you
both. Mrs. Anders, please say 'hello' to Kathleen for me."

"Well, I
certainly hope you plan on seeing her again while you're here,” she said
firmly, placing small hands on both hips.

"I hope
so,” I answered, walking toward the door. "She truly is a wonderful person."

Driving back to
Port Clyde, I could not help thinking about Kathleen Chamberlain.

A sea breeze had
freshened. High up in the sky, mare’s-tails wafted gently in an easterly
direction. They foretold of an approaching cold front. It would rain within
forty-eight hours.

Pulling into the
lower tier of the small parking lots at the Port Clyde dock, I got out of the
car. A stone clattered from under my feet and went bouncing down toward the
clear water, echoing drops of sound rolling in the sunny clarity of the spring
air, ending with a plop.

The wind was
blowing fifteen knots, now. The waves showed a saw-tooth effect along the
amethystine horizon. It indicated the seas were running rough. Boats strained
at their mooring in the bay, halyards clanged against masts.

The pier was
deserted. Looking at the buildings bordering the dock, I could see one was a
real estate office. Next to it, a curio shop. The last building was the chandlery.

Walking along
the rear of the buildings, across a narrow, worn and warped plank walkway with
a low overhang, I noticed a ship tied alongside the pier with the name, MOMA
C., carved into an old timber and fastened to the stern. A small, patina
colored deckhouse had been built amidships. The hull, once painted black, was
streaked with aerugo and verdigris. Remembering from the ferry schedule I had
picked up at the Barstow Inn that this was the name of the Monhegan Island
ferry, I sincerely hoped she was a lot more shipshape than she looked or I
would not want to be aboard in a heavy running sea.

At the back door
of the chandlery, I could hear voices, laughter. Pulling open a sagging screen
door, I pushed on a heavy, solid wood door, which appeared to be at least a
hundred years old.

Inside the
barn-like structure a dozen men sat at a long, wooden table playing some sort
of a game on a square board drilled full of holes. A potbellied stove sat unlit
in the corner. Tobacco smoke hung heavy around the table. Up toward the front,
a young woman worked behind a counter filled with tins of food.

The men around
the table, all dressed as seamen, fell silent, staring at the stranger.

"The ship
to Monhegan going across today?" I asked to no one in particular.

No one in
particular answered me.

I stood for an
uneasy thirty seconds while the men puffed on their pipes and cigars, sizing me
up.

Finally, one of
the younger men, without looking at me, said, "Captain's not going across
today."

"Oh, is he
ill?"

"No, he's
scared,” the same man said, relighting his pipe with a kitchen match.

They all
laughed.

"You be
wanting to go to Monhegan, Mister?" The man asked, blowing out the match,
throwing it at an ashtray and missing.

"Might,” I
said, playing it easy.

The man stood
up. "I'm the Captain. I'm not running across today, too rough."

"Too
rough?" I asked, with disbelief in my voice.

"Well, I
could get you across,” he said, puffing on his pipe. "But I can't lay up
to the dock. She's running ten to twelve feet outside. Monhegan's dock is open
to seaward. Besides that,” he smirked, blowing smoke toward me. "You
wouldn't like the ride."

All the men
guffawed.

I was amused at
their little con game being played against me. I did not mind, for I had been
around seamen all my life. They are good people. But a con man's antics are a
lot less amusing when you're the sucker.

Deciding not to
push, I played it straight.

"Yes, I
understand,” I said to the Captain, shrugging my shoulders and looking at him
closely for the first time. "No problem. There's always another day."

"You a
fisherman, Mister?" One of the older men, chewing on an unlit cigar stub,
asked.

"Not any
more. But I did my time as a deck hand."

It wasn't a lie.
I had spent a lot of time at sea. Electing not to tell them it was mostly
aboard luxurious sportfishermen and well-founded sailboats, rather than working
fish boats, seemed a wise decision under the circumstances.

You could see
all the men around the table relax. I had passed their test.

"I'm Jim
Barstein,” the younger man said, leaning back in his chair, resettling his
pipe. "You come back at eight o'clock in the morning, I'll get you
across."

Approaching the
table where they sat, I said, "Listen, men, name's Leicester. I'm a
private investigator. Any of you ever see either of these two before?" I
lay the photographs on the table. They all gathered around.

One of the men
picked up Bilotti's, held it up to the bare light bulb, studied it for a while,
and handed it back to me. "This is the one was shot in the parking lot the
other day,” he said, relighting his pipe. "Never seen the other one."

"I've
seen'em both,” the young Captain said.

"Where'd
you see this one?" I asked, pointing to Rinaldi.

"He came
down the morning before this one was killed." He indicated Bilotti's
photo. "Wanted to get to Monhegan. Seemed disappointed I wasn't going
across, something about a meeting on the island. Asked me if I knew anybody
who'd charter him across."

"Did
you?" I asked, leaning back, crossing my arms.

"Nah,
nobody does that." He sat up straight, ran a hand through greasy hair.
"Be cutting into my ferry business."

Somebody needs
to, I thought to myself.

"Did any of
you see the two of them together?" I asked, picking up the photos.

"Annie...”
The young Captain called to the girl up front. "Come back here and look at
these pictures."

The girl wasn't
so young. Early thirties, I guessed. Scraggly hair, hard face. Her hands were
callused, unpainted fingernails chipped and bitten. She probably worked on a
fishing boat during the season and in the chandlery the rest of the year.

Handing her the
pictures, she looked carefully at both of them.

"That's the
one Wilma found shot in the parking lot. Scared the fool out of her. I ain't
seen the other one." She looked at the photos again, shaking her head
slowly, then said, "Wait, ain't that the guy was upset when you didn't run
that day?" She pointed at Barstein with the photos. "Yeah, I remember
him, now. He bought some wool mittens, a cap, and some other stuff. Said they
were a gift. Yeah, that's him."

"Are you
sure about this?" I asked, suddenly alert.

She stood
without moving, looking sternly at me, her feet planted apart, her shoulders
thrown back, her arms hanging straight at her sides. "I said it's him,
didn't I?"

They all
laughed.

"Yes, I
guess you did, at that."

Thanking them
all for the help, I walked out the front door of the chandlery. If the cash had
been in the car when Bilotti's body was discovered...

Getting in my
car, I headed back toward Rockland.

*
* *

Arriving at the
Navigator Inn, I went into the lobby and picked up a local newspaper. Having a
cup of coffee with Mabel crossed my mind, but there was some serious thinking
to be done before meeting with Gino Anastasio. Mabel would not be of any help
with it.

Henry waved me
over to the registration desk.

"Message
for you from Detective Chamberlain." He leaned on the counter, picked at a
callused knuckle. "Wants you to call him. Didn't matter what time you got
back. Said if he wasn’t at the office, he’d be home."

"Thanks,
Henry." I folded the newspaper under my arm, and started out the door.

"Oh, Mr.
Leicester,” Henry said with a sly grin. "I think Mabel's taken a liking to
you. Consider that a compliment. She don't cater to many men. In fact, I can't
remember any she's been with since starting to work here two years ago."

"Again,
thanks, Henry." I waved the newspaper at him. It would probably make
headlines in the local news if I did go out with Mabel. Small towns...

"Anything
happening with the dead guys?" He asked, shuffling receipts, not looking
at me. "I mean, you making any progress with solving the crimes?" He
glanced up, then quickly looked back at whatever he was doing.

Putting the
paper back under my arm, I said, "We're always making progress, Henry. You
can count on it."

He cracked a
nervous grin.

It made me
suddenly remember how fast he knew of Nat Rinaldi's demise. Could he be somehow
involved in this? Did he know who killed these men, or maybe that the four
hundred and fifty thousand fell into local hands and he knew whose?

"See ya,
Henry." Walking out of the lobby, I glanced back and saw him hurrying
across the hall, heading toward the coffee shop and Mabel.

The door to my
room was standing open. Reaching in my jacket pocket, I took out my old worn
magnum. We had been together many years, through some rough times. This model
sixty-six had been with me long enough that I thought of it more as a living
thing than an inanimate object of death.

No one was in
the room; nothing seemed out of order. Putting the magnum away, I chalked the
open door up to a careless maid. For a fleeting moment one desk clerk named
Henry, who had a passkey, crossed my mind. He would not leave the door open
when he was finished, though.

Scratching my
head, I sat on the side of the bed and phoned J.L. He was still at the office.

"I've got
some information on Anastasio from Chicago. Thought maybe you'd like to hear
it. You want it over the phone?"

"Sure, why
not,” I answered, thinking it didn't matter who overheard it anyway.

"He's
bigger than I thought. They refer to him as the Chairman of the Board. New
York, Miami, Vegas, the West Coast. He sits at the head of the table. The Boss
of Bosses."

Lying back on
the bed, I looked up at the sprinkler system hanging from the ceiling. "So
he's the one they elected at the meeting at Apalachin in upstate New York a few
years ago. The one the FBI found out about and made such a big to-do in the
news media."