Vineyard Stalker (10 page)

“I hope so.”

I walked back to the Land Cruiser and drove home. Later that night, when I put out a hand and Zee wasn't beside me, I recalled the old agnostic saying that sleeping alone in a double bed is evidence that there is no God.

The next morning as I was weeding in the garden I heard the telephone ringing and for once actually got to it before it stopped. It was Carole Cohen.

“Did you hear?” she asked, her voice sharp and worried. “They found a body this morning beside the highway, at the end of the ancient way we took when we went to my brother's house. It was Melissa Carson. They say she was murdered.”

“I think you'd better get a lawyer for your brother,” I said. “The police will be talking to him and he may need one. Did you know that he and Melissa Carson were lovers?”

“What are you talking about? My brother's been celibate for thirty years. He's like a priest, for heaven's sake.”

“Maybe he's a priest, but he hasn't been celibate recently. Her mother will tell the police about the affair and Roland will automatically become a suspect, especially if they found her body on his land.”

“I don't really know exactly where they found her, but that's what I heard. Oh, dear! You're right. I'll call a lawyer right now.”

“Good.”

“Can you go up there and find out what happened? Tell the police that you're working for me. Find Roland and tell him to say nothing until the lawyer's with him.”

“All right, but I won't have any influence. The police will have no reason to tell me anything.”

“Then just tell Roland to say nothing! He's so honest that he may get himself into trouble without realizing it! Please go now! I'll be there myself as soon as I can.”

“This might be a good time to tell the police about the vandalism. That would give them something to think about besides Roland.”

“No, don't do that yet. No one should say anything until we talk with a lawyer. Please just go up there and make sure that Roland stays quiet while you find out what actually happened. I'll see you up there. Hurry!”

The phone buzzed in my ear.

I hung up, found Ann Bouchard's number in the book and called her. Ann was a reporter for the
Gazette
. In the days before I met Zee, Ann and I had spent some time together. Now both of us were married to other people, but we were still friends. I thought if I tipped her about this killing she might pass me off as an assistant when she went up to cover the story. But Ann was already gone, having been tipped earlier. So much for the latest of my best-laid plans. I got into the Land Cruiser and drove west.

Carole Cohen had a right to be worried, even if her brother was innocent as a dove. It was possible that the police wouldn't look back forty years into Roland Nunes's past, but if they didn't it was likely that some newspaper reporter would. Ann Bouchard, for instance, would see a story in the fact that a war hero turned reclusive monk was now a principal figure in the murder of a sexually charged woman who had been his lover. If Ann dug very deep both she and the United States Army would discover the truth about Nunes and the military would be sure to prosecute him for desertion.

Unless, that is, the real killer was discovered quickly enough to cause both the police and the reporters to lose interest in Nunes so that his past remained unexamined.

Both sides of the paved road were lined almost bumper to bumper with cruisers and civilian cars when I got to the site, but I found a spot where I could park and walked toward the center of activity, where local and state police were holding back curious civilians and trying not to contaminate the crime scene encircled by yellow tape. There was no body, which meant that the ambulance had come and gone, but detectives were still looking for anything that might help clarify things for them. They were being careful trying not to join the ranks of investigators who infamously destroy more evidence than they find.

Ann Bouchard and another reporter were talking with Sergeant Dom Agganis of the state police while Dom's underling, Officer Olive Otero, kept an eye on what was going on inside the tape. Olive and I had wasted a lot of time and energy over the years disliking each other with irrational intensity, but recently that had changed and we had become friendly due to a small, unlikely discovery: We were both fans of old Tarzan movies starring Johnny Weissmuller as the ape man. Warmed by that revelation, our ancient animosity had melted away and stayed away. Now, seeing me, she waved a hand before turning back to watch the detectives at work.

Dom was an old acquaintance, a tall, thick man with fingers the size of sausages and an aura of command that allowed him to do his tough job without actually having to use force very often. In one locally famous incident, for instance, a drunken bow hunter had loosed an arrow in the direction of his ex-wife's house and fled into the woods with several very nervous members of the Edgartown police in pursuit. All of them wanted him disarmed and taken into custody but after surrounding him none wanted to risk getting shot with a hunting arrow, a possibility that frightened them much more than being shot with a bullet.

The standoff, with the hunter shouting drunken threats and the police reluctant both to shoot or be shot at, lasted until Dom, in civvies, unshaven, and irked because the call he'd gotten had forced him to stop fishing just as the blues were beginning to hit, appeared, grabbed a speaker, stood and looked right at the perp, and said, “Dave, this is Dom Agganis. Put down that goddamned bow and come here right now!”

And Dave, cowed, did just that.

I walked over and listened to what Dom was saying to Ann. It wasn't much, since Dom, like many police officers, liked to play his cards close to his vest until he knew more about what was going on.

Now, seeing me, he said, “J.W. Jackson. I guess I should have known you'd show up. What is it about you and trouble? Every time we have a situation, there you are.”

“Not every time,” I said.

He patted his shirt pocket. “I haven't got your name here on my list of people to talk to. Should I add it?”

“I doubt it,” I said. I nodded to Ann. “Hi, Ann. How are things with the fourth estate?”

“Enlightening the ignorant, keeping an eagle eye on the authorities, and entertaining the masses, as always,” said Ann. “What
are
you doing here, J.W.? Are you so bored living alone for a week that you're offering your sleuthing services to the police these days? By the way, how did you find out about this killing?”

“Yeah,” said Dom. “How did you find out? Ms. Bouchard here has snitches working for her, but you don't. Or maybe you do.”

“I got a phone call,” I said. “Is it a killing? Is it murder?”

“The ME will let us know,” said Dom. “Who phoned you?”

“A woman I know.”

“Who? And how'd she find out? And why did she call you?”

“Carole Cohen. I don't know how she found out. She called me to ask me to come up here and see what was going on. What is going on? Is it true that Melissa Carson is the vic?”

Dom looked at me with his flat cop eyes. “Why is Carole Cohen so interested?”

“You can ask her.”

“Don't dance with me, J.W. Why is she so interested?”

“Roland Nunes is her brother.” I gestured with a thumb. “He lives down that path about a quarter of a mile. She thinks he's a saint and she doesn't want you to bother him.”

“What's that got to do with you?”

“I'm supposed to keep him out of your clutches until she gets here with her lawyer.” I held up a hand as Dom's brows drew together. “I told her that I didn't think I'd swing much weight with you, but she insisted and you know what a sucker I am for women's tears.”

“Ha!” said Ann.

“You're right about swinging no weight,” said Dom. “Hey, Olive!” Olive trotted over. “Olive, I want you to go down that path there and find a guy named Roland Nunes. Bring him back here so I can talk with him.”

“I'll go with you,” I said.

“No, you won't,” said Dom. “Get going, Olive.”

As she left I said in a loud voice, “Just make sure you Miranda him!”

Dom tipped his head a bit to one side. “Why the advice, J.W.? Does Nunes know something I'd like to know?”

I shrugged. “I doubt that he knows anything, but his sister doesn't want him talking without her lawyer being there. I guess she's heard stories about you guys and your rubber hoses.”

Ann was scribbling in her notepad, taking all this down just in case it might mean something or at least add color to her story.

“You never did tell me if the vic is Melissa Carson,” I said.

“That's right, I didn't,” said Dom.

“Well, I guess I can ask Babs.”

“No, you can't,” said Ann. “Babs had chest pains when they told her about Melissa, and they've taken her to the hospital.”

“So it
was
Melissa,” I said to her, ignoring Dom. “Was it murder?

Ann nodded. “I'm no doctor, but before they took her away, I saw bruises on her jaw and her head was at a funny angle. Looked like a broken neck to me.” She looked up at Dom. “Any comment on that, Sergeant?”

“Nope. So far it's just an unattended death, causes unknown. We'll be questioning the neighbors to see if anyone saw or heard anything that might be useful to us.”

“But the victim is definitely Melissa Carson.”

“Tentatively identified,” said Dom. “I wouldn't put that in my paper just yet, Ms. Bouchard.”

“Call me Ann,” said Ann. She looked at me. “How well do you know Babs Carson, J.W.?”

“Are you working for the police now?” I asked.

“It's just that you seem to know Melissa and Babs. I didn't know you moved in those elevated circles.”

My meetings with the Carsons and Rob Chadwick weren't going to be unknown for long after the police talked with them, so I said, “I've spoken to them.”

“When was that?” asked Dom.

It's been argued that it's better to always tell the truth so you don't have to try to remember later what you said the first time. I wasn't sure about the always part, but this seemed to be one of those honest times, so I said, “Yesterday.”

“About what?” asked Dom.

I thought the whole business of the vandals was going to come out very soon in spite of Carole Cohen's hopes that it wouldn't. Babs Carson and Rob Chadwick both knew about it because of me, if for no other reason.

“Somebody's been vandalizing Roland Nunes's property,” I said. “Carole Cohen hired me to try to catch them in the act. I did, the night before last. Yesterday I talked with the neighbors trying to find out if they knew anything about it. They said no.”

“You should have called the West Tisbury police in the first place,” said Dom.

“That's what I told Carole, but she wanted to handle it herself.”

Dom snorted. “Amateurs. What did you do with the night crawlers after you caught them?”

“Well, I didn't exactly catch them.”

“What did you exactly do? You'd better start from the beginning.”

I looked up and down the road, but Carole and her lawyer were not in sight. Alas.

Feeling only faintly guilty about it, I started from the beginning, leaving out all references to Nunes's past, Jed Mullins, and Melissa Carson's sexuality, but relating the rest of what I'd seen and heard, including Carole Cohen's theory about the motive for the vandalism and the photos I was having cleaned up. When I was done, Dom was looking thoughtful and Ann was scribbling fast.

“So you got yourself stun-gunned. You should have reported that.”

I shrugged.

“And you heard these guys talk about killing somebody but only if the money was right?”

“I might not have been hearing straight, but yeah.”

“And now you're having those films worked on?”

“Yes.”

“Lemme see that one you've got.” I gave it to him. He glanced at it and put it in his own pocket. “I'll just keep this. When you get those other copies back from the guy who's trying to clean them up, I'll want them, too.”

“Sure.” But I'd have copies made for myself first.

“So the Cohen woman is coming up here with her lawyer and she wants you to keep her brother's mouth shut until they get here,” said Dom. “What's she afraid he'll tell us?”

I shrugged. “She thinks he's such an innocent lamb that he might say something that can be used against him later by you wolves.”

Dom glanced down the ancient way. Just coming into sight were Olive Otero and Roland Nunes.

“You've talked with Nunes,” said Dom. “What's your impression of him?”

“You mean does he seem like the killer type? No, he doesn't.”

“Did he strike you as being a saint?”

“I don't know many saints. Some people call him the Monk.”

“Oriental or Occidental?”

“I didn't see any saffron robe.”

“Just a normal sort of man?”

“What's normal these days? Anybody see a car parked here last night? The killer had to get here somehow.”

“Nobody we've talked to saw one. Besides, maybe Nunes did it.”

We watched while Olive and Roland Nunes came to us. Nunes's eyes were taking in the tape and the police.