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."
"He's the one. The Wise Guys refer to these get-togethers as commission meetings. Can you believe it? The FBI had a tap on the place. One of the Dons made the remark that organized crime was second only in size to the government itself. Anastasio spoke up and said they were at least as big as IBM."
I had heard the story differently. The message was the same, though.
"Anything else?" I asked, sitting back up.
"Only that this guy is powerful. Wouldn't make sense for him to be piddling with stuff like this. It just doesn't wash."
Thinking for a minute, I pulled at the telephone cord. "The hit had to be planned for Bilotti. Rinaldi may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time by design. It was a cover for the hit."
"I don't know,” J.L. mused.
"It does seem too complicated for a hit on a mole." Kicking off both shoes, I rubbed my feet together. "They could have just dropped him off the Sears tower, or let him wash up on the beach from Lake Michigan. Something's out of kilter. Tomorrow's meeting should prove interesting."
"Well, you've got to be careful. I'll put a wire on you. Jay, he could get you aboard his airplane, shut the door, fly off, and you'd never be heard from again."
"Well, it'd be a hell of a ride." Scratching a little toe, I said, "No wire, J.L. He's not stupid. They'd find it before I was within ten feet of him."
"Okay, if that's the way you feel,” Chamberlain said, relenting, sounding unhappy. "I'll be taking you to the airport. I want Gino Anastasio to know I'm there, waiting if anything should go wrong."
"Sounds fine to me,” I said, meaning it. "I'll see you in the morning."
Easing the phone back into its cradle, I took the newspaper and went out on the balcony. It was dusk dark, the peaceful transition period between light and night. A good time of day for some, a lonesome time for others.
The evening ferry was off-loading cars and people. Lines were forming for those finished with the day’s work, heading home to the idyllic life on offshore islands. The wind had calmed as the sun set. It was going to be a nice spring night in Rockland, Maine.
Propping my feet up on the banister, I unfolded the paper. An article in the lower right hand corner of the front page caught my eye:
STOLEN RUBENS RECOVERED IN FLORIDA
Miami Beach – A stolen 17th-century oil masterpiece by Flemish painter Peter Paul Rubens was recovered in Miami Beach on Tuesday, six years after it was taken from a museum in Spain. The five-by-eight inch painting entitled AURORA was recovered after four men offered to sell it for $3.5 million to an undercover agent, officials said.
If the thief's offered it for $3.5 million, wonder what its real value would be?
I had never heard of the artist, Rubens. My knowledge of art was still next to nil. Rockwell Kent, I knew about, though. It was a start.
Night fell quickly, like someone pulling down a window shade. The ferry pulled out, taking people to warm, clean homes, laughing children, and loving mates. Sitting alone on a balcony in a hotel, I thought of two dead bodies, a mournful sister, the dying wife of a friend, a man who headed the entire crime families in the United States, and Mabel.
Finishing the newspaper, I called down and asked Henry to ring me at seven in the morning, then went to bed.