Chamberlain rang my room at the appointed time. Collecting Sandy, we met him downstairs at the check in counter. Riding in silence, Chamberlain eased along the quaint waterfront to the Angler's Inn.
"I hope you both like lobster,” Chamberlain said, as we walked across the parking lot. "If you do, you're in for a treat."
"We get live Maine lobster flown into New Orleans,” Sandy said. "But they are outrageously expensive."
Chamberlain laughed, winked at me.
Inside, a woman with a loud, squeaky voice showed us to a table. As she walked away her voice lingered on like the whining of a dentist's drill. Thank God our waitress didn't sound like her.
Chamberlain ordered the nights special for all of us, and began to look over the wine list. "They have a 1990 Chablis Grand Cru, from Les Preuses. It's dry, steely, and goes great with the lobster. Is that okay, or would either of you like something else to drink?"
Sandy said the wine would be fine. It delighted me that Chamberlain had an appreciation for the grape. Wine has been a hobby of mine for twenty years. The Chablis was familiar, though not the vintage. It should be fun.
The lobster arrived. Three, steaming, pink Maine lobster per person. Unbelievable! Gluttony at its finest. The wine was superb; a yellow gold color, a rich, honeyed nose with plenty of refreshing acidity to offset the sweetness. It was outstanding with the lobster and, for the second time today, I promised to add to my cellar.
Holding my glass up to Sandy, I said, "What do you think?"
"Wonderful." She twirled the wine in the glass, smelled the bouquet. "This is truly good. A great choice, Detective. You can be my sommelier anytime."
Chamberlain smiled; obviously pleased we appreciated the wine.
Sandy ate every succulent morsel of her lobster. I was only able to get two of mine down. Finishing with a satisfied grin, she was happier than I had seen her thus far.
We sat, sipping on the second bottle of Les Preuses, listening to the noise of the now full restaurant, smelling aromas of steaming lobster and clarified butter wafting across the room.
"Tell me, Jay,” Chamberlain asked. "How did you get into the private investigation business? If you don't mind my asking?"
"Don't mind, J.L.,” I lied. "Spent twenty-five years driving airplanes around. Got tired of a lot of things about the business, not the least of which was the nouveau riche that wanted pilots for servants. Wouldn't wash with me. Government bureaucracy, however well-meant, was squeezing us too tight."
"Why this business?"
Talking about myself made me feel uneasy, especially in front of a client. Cutting him short, I said, "I grew up in a family of law enforcement people. It's the only thing I knew besides flying. How about you?"
"Me? I don't know." He pulled his lobster bib off, wiped his hands in the lemon water. "Joined the Air Force right out of college. Trained as an electronics officer. Ended up doing surveillance against the North Koreans at the end of that conflict. I guess I just naturally gravitated toward law enforcement. Kind of enjoy working in a small town. Grew up here, know everybody. We don't get a lot of complicated stuff. Makes life easy, you know?"
"Well, you've got something complicated, now,” Sandy said, pulling at her bib. "Bilotti's dead and my brother has still not contacted us."
"I checked all the places your brother could be staying,” Chamberlain said almost defensively. "Haven't located where, yet."
"What about Monhegan Island?" I asked, following suit with the bib and finger bowl.
"No, he's not registered at the only place open this time of year, Barbara Hitchcock's guest house. They stay open year-round. I talked to her by radio this afternoon. He could be staying with someone, maybe in a private residence."
"Not likely." Sandy said, dejected. "He doesn't know anyone in Maine."
"Well, he's got to be staying somewhere. I'll keep looking."
Miss Dental Drill came to our table. "Telephone call for you, J.L.,” she whined away. "You can take it at my desk."
"Thank you, Lucy." Chamberlain excused himself, slid out of his seat. "I'll just be a minute."
After Chamberlain was out of earshot, Sandy looked at me and said, "Do you think this man's capable of handling this situation?" She wiped her mouth, looked toward where Chamberlain had disappeared. "Maybe we ought to call the sheriff, or the state police."
"He's capable,” I said, defending Chamberlain. "He works at his own pace, in his own way. Don't underestimate him, Sandy." I'm not sure I convinced her.
Chamberlain returned shortly. Whatever the phone call, it was troubling him. But all he said was, "Just routine." It probably had to do with his wife.
Over coffee Chamberlain said the photo enlargements of Nat Rinaldi would be ready in the morning. He would pass them around throughout the area. Maybe someone would recognize him.
"You find out anything on Bilotti from your friend in Chicago?" I asked, surprised he hadn't mentioned anything about this all evening. He had seemed pretty preoccupied since the phone call.
"No. My friend didn't know him, but he's going to check and let me know tomorrow." Chamberlain fidgeted with his coffee cup. Finally, he said, "My wife is interested in art. You never said what collection Nat Rinaldi was here to purchase. It might brighten her day if she knew I was working on a case involving the art world. She might even know the artist's work."
Looking at Sandy, I deferred to her expertise.
Sandy smiled at Detective Chamberlain. "The collection was by Rockwell Kent. I know little about him, except that he did some government murals and worked in several mediums. He was some sort of socialist. Renato's the expert on Kent."
Chamberlain's smile turned into a strange, slanted grin.
"What?" Sandy asked, agitated. "Did I say something amusing?"
"No, no,” Chamberlain said, leaning back in his chair, holding up both hands in defense. "It just surprised me. I know of Kent. My wife bought a book written by him, GREENLAND JOURNAL. It came with six lithographs. She framed them; they're hanging in our hallway. One of them named, On Earth Peace, is my favorite. It shows a young Eskimo girl with angel wings soaring over the world."
"I'd love to see them,” Sandy said.
"Yes." He looked off in the distance. Then, "You know, Kent lived on Monhegan Island when he was a young man. Worked at odd jobs, well digger, fisherman, carpenter. They say he built two houses on the island which are still standing."
Well, I said to myself, this is coincidental. Maybe it was by design for the seller to meet Rinaldi on Monhegan Island. The collection could be stored somewhere over there. Interesting.
Chamberlain looked for a long time at Sandy. "You and your brother's business is located in New Orleans?"
"Yes,” Sandy replied, clasping both hands together on top of the table. "We have a small gallery in the French Quarter, adjacent to Jackson Square. We deal only in oils and a few block prints. My area of expertise is with the impressionists: Monet, Gauguin, Picasso, Manet, Van Gogh, etc."
"I've certainly heard of all of them, but it's way over my head. I know nothing of the art world. My wife is the family art expert. I leave all that to her."
Sandy smiled, didn't say anything.
"You are a beautiful young woman, Miss Rinaldi. Never married?"
Sandy looked at him. "No, J.L., no one ever asked. The name is Sandy, remember?"
Chamberlain nodded. "Well, there must me something wrong with those young men in Louisiana. Why if I were thirty years younger and single, you would have to beat me off with a stick."
I laughed.
"Why thank you, kind sir. If you weren't a Yankee, I would take you for a true southern gentleman."
Chamberlain and I both laughed.
After the dinner, which was only twelve bucks a person plus the wine, Chamberlain drove us back to the Navigator Inn. He was strangely quiet during the drive. The phone call must still be bothering him. We watched as he drove away, then went up to our rooms.
Sandy said she was tired and full and was going to turn in. We said good night. Leaving her at her door, I walked out on my balcony. Lights on the islands in the bay twinkled in the cool night air. The ferry was unloading people and cars at the dock straight across the street from where I stood.
My phone rang. The desk clerk, Henry, I thought. No doubt wanting to catch up on the latest. Picking up the receiver, I had no time to say anything.
"Leicester, it's J.L.,” he said, sounding rather depressed.
"What's up, J.L.?" I asked, sitting down on the bed. "You alright? You don't sound so good."
"I didn't want to say anything at dinner in front of Sandy, but the phone call I got; we have another body. Washed up down by Tenant's Harbor. It matches the photograph. I just wanted to be sure. I'll run the prints."
"I understand, J.L., thanks for calling. I'll be in touch with you in the morning."
Hanging the phone up, I stood there for a moment looking out the sliding glass doors toward the Atlantic Ocean and Europe. Maybe I should tell Sandy. After all, she was my client. Nat Rinaldi is, or was, her brother.
Lightly tapping my fist on the doorframe, I made a decision to allow her a good night's sleep. Death could be dealt with tomorrow. Chamberlain would have the rest of the night to work on a positive identification of the body they fished out of Tenant's Harbor. Maybe he could get a match on the fingerprints.
What I needed was a drink. The small courtesy bar contained assorted liquors. Finding two tiny bottles of Courvoisier cognac, I opened both, pouring them into a wineglass. Carefully cutting the end off one of my seven inch, fifty-four ring, long filler, handmade, Ernesto P. Carrillos cigars, crafted by old country Tabaquero's on Calle Ocho in the heart of Miami, I carefully lit it, admiring the aroma. It's been my habit to never travel without them.
The wind was calm on the balcony. The cigar smoke curled slowly upward, a bluish-gray line dividing the black void of my world into two equal halves. Checking Sandy's balcony to be sure she wasn't curled up in a corner, I sat in one of the wooden chairs, and propped my feet up on the railing.
Tony Bilotti was dead. Now, almost surely, Nat Rinaldi was dead. Four hundred and fifty thousand in cash hadn't turned up. A collection of artwork by an artist named Rockwell Kent was probably stolen, also.
A boat, invisible except for a white masthead light and a red portside running light, made its way northward in Penobscot bay. Here I sat on a balcony, in a strange motel, in the State of Maine. As usual, surrounded by dead bodies, unhappy clients, and missing tangibles people think are worth human lives.