J.L. booked us two tickets to Monhegan Island aboard the ferry out of Port Clyde. It was scheduled for a ten- thirty a.m. departure.
"You mean, if it goes across,” I said, laughing. "Young Captain Barstein seems to run when he needs the money."
J.L. looked at me with a seriousness I had not seen before.
"We can't control the weather,” he said, shoving the phone to the side of his desk. "But the ferry will run tomorrow unless a hurricane blows out of the north."
I laughed. J.L. knew the sea as well as anyone. He understood that Barstein ran across when he could. But J.L. was still miffed at the Captain neglecting to say he had seen Rinaldi. Captain Barstein was in for a rough day tomorrow, both from the sea and Chamberlain.
"This weather should blow through tonight. It usually doesn't last long this time of year,” J.L. said, looking out his window at the rain pelting down from the darkening sky. "The wind will blow early, then lay about noon. We shouldn't have any problem. I'll pick you up at the Navigator around eight o'clock in the morning."
"Sounds great to me,” I said, looking at my old Rolex GMT-master I bought twenty-five years ago as a young aviator. It showed the time, both in local and Greenwich Mean Time, and now read three o'clock. "So what do we spend the rest of the day accomplishing?"
Chamberlain looked up at me with sad eyes. A gust of wind rattled the window behind his head. Rain spattered on the pane, running down in crooked lines.
"If you don't mind, Jay, I'm going home. Kathleen's having a rough go of it this afternoon. Bill Reinbold called while you were on the way over. He's at the house, giving her something for the pain." He looked down to his desk, shuffled some papers.
"Anything I can do?"
"No,” he answered, looking up with watery eyes. "I'll see you in the morning.
Leaving the office, I headed for my rental car.
"They're forecasting snow flurries by midnight, Mr. Leicester,” Sergeant Bowers said, as I passed his desk.
Shaking my head, I shuddered, but made no comment.
I did not notice the cutting wind, or the icy, stinging rain while walking to the car. My thoughts were on Kathleen Chamberlain. Slamming the car door, I started the engine. Only fools and little children think there is any fairness in this world. I pounded my fist on the steering wheel.
Driving back to the Navigator Inn, I passed old houses with pointed roofs crouched low to the ground, hunched under the weight of a hundred years and a heavy sky. The streets were empty and hollow, echoing the sound of the car's engine. Parking in the back, near the entrance to the elevator, I sat for a moment watching the wipers scrapping pelting sleet and snow from the glass. Rainbow patterns spread across the windshield as the rubber blades lost the battle with the build up of road grime.
Deciding to pick up a newspaper, I went around to the lobby. Henry was sitting behind the desk watching a game show on a tiny, color television.
"Mr. Leicester,” he said without moving his eyes from the set. "Nasty afternoon. Hope you hadn't planned on dining with us this evening?"
The thought had crossed my mind.
"Mabel closed early,” Henry said. "No guests, except you, in the hotel. No sense in staying open. Hope you won't complain?"
"No, but I would take a cup of that coffee you've got brewing,” I said, smelling the fresh aroma.
"Sure,” he nodded, still watching the game show. "Be about three more minutes."
"How about some change so I can get a paper?" I laid a dollar bill on the counter.
"The Grapes of Wrath, you idiot,” Henry said, getting to his feet, answering the question being asked the contestant on the game show.
He turned off the set.
"Jeopardy...boy, I would love to get on that show. I could make a fortune."
Henry looked at the dollar bill on the counter. He picked it up and handed it back to me. "Sorry, no papers left. They only deliver six a day. You can have mine, I've finished with it. I keep the crossword puzzle, though” he said defiantly, grinning.
"Thanks,” I said, taking the paper and folding it up. "I'm not smart enough for the crossword puzzles. Put me down for a wake-up call at seven in the morning. I'd appreciate it."
"Done." He made a notation on a pad. "I talked with the maid today. She promised to be more careful."
Shaking my head, I did not reply.
"Oh, by the way,” Henry said, as I took a styrofoam cup of the fresh brewed coffee and started walking away. "Here's a couple of phone calls for you, and an envelope."
He handed me the messages.
Attaching a tiny piece of clear tape to my hotel room door this morning before leaving, I found it undisturbed. Throwing the newspaper on the table, I sat down on the bed and went over the messages.
One of the calls was from Guy Robbins. Dialing his office number, his secretary said he had gone for the day, took his boat out for a sail. Informing her I would call him back tomorrow, I silently wished I was aboard Picaroon with him. The other call was from Sandy. There was no answer at the Gallery. I would try her later.
My name was hand-printed across the front of the small white envelope in bold, block letters. There was no return address. Opening it, I took out the blue sheet of paper. It read: 'What you don't use, you lose.'
I had wanted to avoid this, but I had a vision of Kathleen Chamberlain, of death and dying, of how short life can truly be, and of the few pleasures we truly have. Having committed it to memory, I dialed the number Mabel had written on the restaurant check.
Finding Mabel's house was easy. Her directions were explicit. She met me at the door with a warm hug, and a kiss on the cheek. A roaring fire blazed brightly in a wonderful old stone hearth. The house was small, but neat and well furnished. It had the feeling of being lived in.
"You like wine?"
"Sure."
"Red or white?"
"Whatever you're having."
She went into the kitchen. I could hear the tinkle of glass, a cork being pulled from a bottle. It afforded me time to look around. The walls of the living room were decorated with prints of the sea. A photograph on a small table over by a window was of a handsome man in a wool sweater and a sailor's watch cap. Chamberlain said that her husband was lost at sea.
Mabel returned with two glasses filled with red wine and a small tray of cheese and crackers.
"Let's sit on the couch in front of the fire." She indicated the small sofa.
We sipped the wine, talked, and worked our way through those awkward first moments.
She was a plain woman, hardworking, with a serious quality. My kind of person. We seemed to get along well.
"More wine?"
"Yes, thank you."
She went to the kitchen and brought back the bottle.
"Tell me about Mabel,” I said, holding the wineglass up to the fire, admiring the ruby, orange-tinged color.
She laughed out loud. "Now there's an interesting subject for you. I was born here, live here, and I'll probably die here."
She said it without sarcasm.
"Any children?"
"No children,” she said, looking across my shoulder.
Getting up, she walked over, picked up the photograph of the man, brought it back, and handed it to me.
"My only true love, my husband. The sea took him."
"I'm sorry,” I said, holding the frame gently. "He looks like a fine man."
"Yes,” she said, taking the photograph, looking at it as if for the first time. "He was as good as they come. I loved him deeply."
She put the photograph back in its place.
Smiling as she sat back down, she said, "That's my life story; Billy, love, tragedy, work. I've gotten used to it, but I'll never forget him. Now, let's hear about you."
We drank more wine, talked.
"You have any leads as to who killed those two men?"
"We're working on it."
"Rumor is that there was a lot of money missing. Is that true?"
"Where did you hear something like that?" I asked more harshly than intended.
"In the restaurant, I guess. Why are you so defensive? I'm merely curious."
Sitting my wineglass on the small table beside the couch, I said, "I get like this when I'm on a case, especially when someone who's not involved asks questions about things which only the investigators should know."
"Then there is a lot of money missing?"
"I didn't say that, and I'd still like to know where you heard it?"
"I told you...the restaurant." She folded her legs under and looked at me.
"What about Henry? You talk to him about the murders?"
"It's a small town, Jay." She got up and walked to the fireplace and put on two sticks of wood. "Everybody's talking about the murders. When something like this happens in Rockland, it's all anybody talks about. It could be one of our own involved."
We were two strangers trying to get to know one another. This evening was awkward enough without the investigation interfering. The situation was becoming uncomfortable.
"Discussing your work is making you uneasy. Let's change the subject to something pleasant." She came and set beside me, putting her hand on my shoulder. "Tell me about living in the south?"
Her intuition surprised me, and pleased me. My trust in people was shaky, at best. I wanted her to be genuine, to not be a part of these horrible murders. I also had to be extremely careful.
The rest of the evening went well, and shortly after midnight, I said, "It's getting late. You have to get up early. Maybe I'd better go, let you get some rest."
When we stood, Mabel moved up close to me, held my hand, looked deep into my eyes. "You don't have to go. You can stay, if you want."
* * *
Slipping in the rear entrance, I arrived in my room just as the phone rang. It was Henry with my seven a.m. wake up call. He had not seen me come in.
"Thanks, Henry. I appreciate it."
Listening for sarcasm in his voice, I could not hear any. Maybe last night would not make headlines in the local paper.
After a long, stinging, hot shower, I shaved and dressed. Chamberlain would be here shortly. I hoped I could stay awake today. There was not much sleep in some quarters last night.
Walking into the lobby, I saw Chamberlain drive up.
"How's Kathleen?" I asked, as he entered the front door.
"Bill put her in the hospital last night,” he answered, looking a lot more tired than I felt. "He said she was dehydrated, needed some IV fluids."
"Look, J.L., we can put this Monhegan thing off for a couple of days. There's no rush. You look like you need some rest. Go, stay with Kathleen. We'll go across some other time."
"No. Bill's taking care of her. He assured me it's nothing critical, just part of the process. Let's get some breakfast."
Henry, standing behind the registration desk, said the restaurant wasn't open. Mabel had called; she was running a little late. "Funny,” he said, scratching his head. "First time she's been late since coming to work here."
"Come on,” Chamberlain said, motioning me out the front door. "We'll stop somewhere on the way to Port Clyde. There is plenty of time."
We got in Chamberlain's car and headed south. He drove a different route, keeping close to the bay. It was new and unfamiliar country to me, but was as pleasant as traveling along the state highways.
The sky was still overcast. Low, rain-laden clouds blew swiftly out of the north, indicating frontal passage had already occurred. I estimated the wind at twenty knots. The rain had stopped. Here and there breaks appeared in the overcast. If the wind didn't lay as Chamberlain predicted, it would be a rough crossing to Monhegan Island. Assuming that young Captain Barstein decided to go and wasn't somewhere counting four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cold cash.
When we got to the small hamlet of Tenant's Harbor, J.L. pulled into the East Wind Inn.
"They serve a breakfast buffet here that I think you'll like,” he said as we parked under a huge water oak.
"I've eaten lunch here a couple of times." Unbuckling by seat belt, I got out and looked across the ruffled bay at the small island.
"I know,” J.L. said. "Once with Sandy, once alone."
I had forgotten about Betty Anders, spry, ex-nurse, and mother of the owner of the East Wind Inn. Kathleen Chamberlain's cousin.
"Is there anything that goes on in this county that you don't know about?" I asked, as we walked upon the porch.
"Not much,” he answered, opening the screen door. "I even know where you spent last night."
This stopped me in my tracks. "But how..."
Chamberlain kept on walking. Over his shoulder he said, "Officer Bowers, our Desk Sergeant, has been trying for two years to get Mabel to go out with him. She won't give him the time of day."
Chamberlain walked on into the dinning room. Hurrying, I tried to catch up.
"He drives by her house on his way home every night. Seems your car was still there when he came back to work this morning. He's heartbroken."
Small towns...
* * *
We arrived at the Port Clyde dock at ten-thirty. The ferry, the MOMA C., was tied alongside the pier. Several people milled around, waiting to board. As Chamberlain predicted, the wind was down to around ten knots. Overcast skies had given way to a scattered-to-broken layer. The temperature was still cool, but warming. I brought my old, worn, leather flight jacket. Chamberlain suggested I bring it, as the temperature on the island might be a bit cool. I followed his advice.
We saw Captain Barstein emerge from the rear of the chandlery. Chamberlain headed for him. Deciding not to follow, I watched them meet, then go aboard the ship into the wheelhouse. There was no way for anyone to hear their conversation, but with the animation coming from Chamberlain and the head bowing of Barstein, I imagined it would have been interesting.
After about ten minutes Chamberlain stuck his head out of the wheelhouse door, searched the dock with his eyes until he spotted me, and waved for me to come aboard.
Upon entering the small, cramped space Chamberlain said to me, "I understand you've met Captain Barstein. He's invited us to sail across in the wheelhouse, keep him company."
We shook hands. Barstein remembered me from the other day. It was hard to tell if he was mad at me for informing Chamberlain he had seen Rinaldi. If he was, to his credit, he didn't show it. Barstein signaled one of the two deck hands, who began boarding the few passengers. A small amount of freight was loaded and secured on the aft deck.
Barstein started the big twin diesel engines. They created a muffled rumble somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. On a silent hand signal from a deck hand, he expertly maneuvered away from the dock, turned the vessel around on its own axis, and headed out of the harbor and the open sea.
"What's the length of the MOMA C.?" I asked Barstein after he had settled onto a heading out of the harbor.
Without diverting his eyes from the bow, he said, "Ninety-six on the waterline, one hundred ten overall. Draws twelve feet when loaded. She's an ex-supply ship. Named her after my Ma. Her paint may not look good, but she's well founded and sea worthy. I take care of her personally."
I looked at young Captain Barstein, intense in his concentration on getting the ship safely out to sea, remembering the long, jagged scar running from just below his right eye all the way across the face, ending below his chin. He was a serious man, six feet tall, slenderly built. Coal black hair stuck out from under a wool seaman's cap. His arms were thick and powerful looking. Not a big man, but I imagined strong and quick enough to take care of himself. I thought the thick scar on his face might be proof of it.
"How long you been running to Monhegan?" I asked, wanting to draw him out a little.
"Ten years," he said, still without moving his eyes. "All with the MOMA C."
Chamberlain sat on a small bench inside the wheelhouse, his eyes closed. He seemed unconcerned with our conversation or the trip across. Not me. Any sojourn to sea gets me excited, even after thirty years of sailing small boats in the Gulf of Mexico.
As we cleared the harbor, Barstein eased his ship around to a heading of one hundred and eighty degrees.
He turned abruptly to me, his face a scant few inches from mine. His eyes were startling, wide, round, and jet-black. "You said you were a sailor of sorts. Let us see. Here, take the wheel, steer one eight zero till clearing the Georges Islands up ahead on the starboard side, then two two zero till Monhegan."
He stepped away from the wheel. Taking over, I was as delighted as a kid.
"It's illegal for you to do this when we have passengers aboard,” he said, his dancing eyes twinkling. "But we'll keep a sharp lookout for any law enforcement."
Chamberlain did not respond. His eyes were still closed, his head bobbing back and forth with the roll of the ship.
Wondering if he were really asleep, I thought not.
The MOMA C. began to feel the North Atlantic. The swells were running six to eight feet, but she handled them easily. Made love to them. All I had to do was let her have her head. She would climb a wave, roll off to one side, then the other, as she climbed up the next one, always coming back on course. Barstein was right, she was a well-founded vessel. I was having the time of my life.
Barstein stood, silent, behind me for about ten minutes. When he was satisfied I would not founder his ship, he disappeared from the wheelhouse.
At the first movement of the Moma C. answering the ocean waves, I felt a familiar gnawing of seasickness. It passed quickly with my newfound responsibility.
On passing abeam the Georges Islands, I eased the MOMA C. around to a heading of two hundred and twenty degrees. The water turned from the shallow, inshore shades of green to a deep, bluish-purple. A flock of birds, too far away to identify, headed toward the mainland, flying in a vee pattern, their wings out of sync and fluttering in the broken sunlight like waves crashing on a beach.
Off in the distance Monhegan rose out of the sea, stark and majestic. It was an island I looked forward to visiting for many reasons, not the least of which was finding out who put a .9mm pistol to the back of Nat Rinaldi's head and scrambled his brain.