Young Captain Barstein reappeared in the wheelhouse and took command of the MOMA C.
Chamberlain stirred, stood and looked out at Monhegan Island. "Pretty, isn't it?"
"Yes, even more than I imagined."
"You going to have any trouble docking?" Chamberlain asked Barstein.
"It'll be a little tricky, but we'll make it. Wouldn't want to delay local law enforcement from their appointed rounds." There was no animosity in the statement. He turned and grinned at Chamberlain.
Nothing else was said among us. To my utmost admiration, Barstein laid the MOMA C. alongside the pier on the first attempt. He was good.
When the engines were shut down, Chamberlain told Barstein we would be aboard this afternoon for the four- thirty return trip. Barstein, with another scar-faced grin, said that he would save us a seat.
Chamberlain and I walked ashore. The island was a ruggedly beautiful place. The harbor, formed by Monhegan and the nearby island of Manana, is dotted along its shoreline with colorful summer cottages and homes of the fishermen who live here year-round. This is one of the finest fishing and lobstering grounds on the East Coast. The land sloped gently up toward forest of tall spruce.
"Come on,” Chamberlain said. "I want to see the owner of the Monhegan Store. He's a friend. Maybe he can tell us who had the Kent Collection here on the island. We'll have to walk, there are no cars."
"There was a truck at the dock."
"Belongs to the Monhegan Truckers. They carry luggage, goods for the few hotels, restaurants and general store, but you gotta walk."
Following along behind Chamberlain, I admired the beauty of this place. The sky was clear. Spruce trees and rocks formed an interesting contrast of colors against the azure blue waters and pale horizon. The wind blew, and I was glad Chamberlain had encouraged me to bring my jacket.
"If we have time, I'll take you to the other side of the island. There is a path through the forest, a shortcut. The headlands are worth the effort."
"I'm game."
Chamberlain and the owner of the Monhegan Store greeted each other like long lost brothers with a lot of handshaking and backslapping.
Introducing me, Chamberlain said, "Jay, this is Shorty Williams, one of my oldest and best friends." We shook hands. "Shorty taught me everything I know about the sea."
"Yeah,” Shorty nodded. "He still can't get from here to Rockland without getting lost." We all laughed.
Chamberlain told Shorty we would like to go into his office and discuss some private police business with him.
In a small, cluttered room at the rear of the store, Chamberlain explained the situation to Shorty, surprisingly telling him everything. I hoped he knew what he was doing.
When he was through, Shorty sat silent, rubbing his wrinkled, weather-beaten face. It was hard to tell his age. He was a lot older than Chamberlain with a thin, lanky frame, and a small head. His hair was gray and receding. He had quick, jerky movements, which seemed to echo his black, dancing eyes. A wide grin made him seem eternal, like the purple sea pounding on the rock a hundred yards from where we stood.
Finally, rubbing his gnarled and weather-beaten hands, he said, "J.L., an old couple, Barnes, they were big Kent lovers. Live in one of the houses he built. I think they are related to him in some way. The old man, Ben, ain't been around in several months, but his wife comes in every once in awhile. She has seemed rather out of sorts the last few times, come to think of it."
"Where do they live, Shorty?"
"Way up the hill, yonder." He pointed toward the tree line. "In the gray house at the end of the path, bordering the preserve. You can't miss it."
Chamberlain later explained to me that two-thirds of the island is held by the Monhegan Associates to be kept forever wild.
"One other thing you might be interested in,” Shorty continued. "There was a helicopter made a couple of trips up near their house a few days ago. Don't know if it's important or not."
Yes, I said to myself. A helicopter, of course. Why didn't I think of that? Nat Rinaldi could have chartered a chopper to bring him to the island when the ferry didn't run. Anastasio's men could have done the same thing.
"Well, Shorty, we'll walk up and pay a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes."
"When you get back,” Shorty said, grinning, "I'll feed you two some of that smoked cod you like so well."
"Deal." Chamberlain slapped Shorty on the back.
We followed the old storekeeper through the narrow aisles to the front of the building. The similarity of the merchandise to that of the chandlery in Port Clyde was amazing. Pausing, I looked at some of the caps, gloves, coats, and boots. Things fishermen would need. There was the usual junk for the tourists who crowded the small island during the summer. For some unknown reason, I had a gnawing sensation about this collection of goods. Memory mechanisms deep down in the recesses of my brain were trying to tell me something. Dismissing them, I followed J.L. and Shorty outside.
We stood in front of the Monhegan Store. Shorty pointed out the lane leading to the gray house belonging to the Barnes couple. The house was hidden among the tall spruce trees.
"Shorty seems like a nice sort,” I said to Chamberlain as we negotiated the narrow road up the hill, which soon turned from pitted stretches of paving brick into a gravel lane, our steps crunching in the silence, sharp and even, like the cracks of a radial piston engine. "He seems to be someone I would like to have as a friend."
"He's one of the good people, Jay. Born to the sea. Toiled all his life in a lobster boat right here on Monhegan Island. He got old, his heart went sour." J.L. paused, turned, looked back down the gentle slope toward the store. "Bill had to force him to go down to Portland for the inevitable triple bypass. He wasn't able to convince him until his heart stopped beating, and he resuscitated him, bringing him back from the dead."
"Seems like he's doing okay, now."
"Bill says he'll probably outlive the both of us. He hates being landlocked, though."
"Wouldn't you?"
"Yeah." J.L. continued up the hill.
We rounded a sharp curve in the now three foot wide path. Almost hidden in the trees was the small gray house. I had expected something bigger. This one was about eight hundred square feet. Big enough, I guess.
J.L. knocked on the front door. We waited, no one came. He knocked again, louder.
"Ain't no tourist allowed,” a hollow voice said from behind the door.
"This is Detective Chamberlain from the Rockland Police Department. Need to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. Shorty Williams told us where you live."
The front door opened a crack. "You got some I.D., young man?" Asked a female voice.
It was funny, her calling Chamberlain young.
"Yes, Ma'am." J.L. held up his badge case to the crack in the door.
"What's this about?"
"Could we please come in, Ma'am? We want to talk with you about some artwork. A Rockwell Kent collection."
The door opened, we walked inside. The house was small, but immaculately kept. The curtains were drawn. When the front door closed it was completely dark inside.
"Please have a seat,” the woman said, opening the drapes, flooding the room with light. "I'll get my husband." She disappeared down a narrow, dark hallway.
Looking around the small living room made me feel like being back in the nineteen twenties. The furnishings were spartan, but comfortable. There wasn't a speck of dust to be seen. An old, battery operated radio sat in one corner of the room. A fireplace took up one wall; a small, hand-carved writing desk next to a tiny window took up another. A sofa and two wooden chairs with cushions completed the furnishings.
Moments later the woman returned with her husband. We all stood for a few awkward seconds, looking at each other. Finally the woman said, "This is my husband, Ben. He's not feeling well. I'm Betty Barnes."
We introduced ourselves.
The man, Ben Barnes, stood erect and proud. He appeared near eighty years old, and was balding with gray veins lacing his shiny scalp. As he spoke one could see that he had but one canine tooth left in his mouth. The arms were bony, with long delicate fingers. His skin was so thin it seemed transparent. Dressed in a clean, wool shirt, he wore blue khaki pants with the zipper half open, as if forgotten from his last trip to the bathroom. On his feet were brown leather slippers, no socks. His handshake was frail and weak.
He did not offer us a chair; instead he walked over to the writing table, opened a drawer, and took out a white bottle painted with blue birds. Turning to his wife and holding up the bottle, he said, "Mother..."
She disappeared, returning in seconds with four small shot glasses.
Carefully pouring a tiny amount of a purple liquid into the glasses, he handed one to each of us. Raising his glass in a salute he said, "Welcome to our home."
It was solemn and sincere. We handled it that way.
"Please be seated, Gentlemen,” he said, as his wife took the glasses away. "I've been expecting you."
Chamberlain and I looked at each other in surprise.
Tasting the thick, sweet liquid, I did not have the faintest idea what it was. Probably something homemade and precious to this old couple.
The wife, a tall, slim, proud lady, returned and sat by her husband. Her age appeared to equal his, but her energy and vitality were strong, his was gone. She had the thin, scraggly hair of the aged, but not a single strand was out of place. The color was a beautiful silver-gray. The face was wrinkled, the skin, brownish and spotted. Her eyes were green and full of life, though.
"Why were you expecting us?" Chamberlain asked.
"Because they stole our Kent collection,” the old man said. "I heard over the wireless about the two men being killed." He pointed towards the radio. "We listen to the news every day."
"Now, Daddy,” his wife spoke up. "Don't be saying crazy things." She fidgeted with a small, white handkerchief in her lap and tried to smile. Then she said to J.L., "Aren't you the one who married Mac and Lucy Delaney's daughter, Kathleen?"
"Yes, Ma'am,” he answered, leaning forward and placing both elbows on his knees.
"The Delaney's that owned the ship dock and marina?" The old man asked his wife. She nodded. "Well, I'll be. She's a fine young girl. How's she doing?"
"Pretty as ever,” Chamberlain said with great patience.
Breaking in, I said, "Mr. Barnes, you said someone stole your art collection. What did you mean by that?"
Betty Barnes bowed her head, worked the handkerchief around her fingers.
Chamberlain gave me a sharp glance. If he wanted to handle this, he should have said something. Shrugging my shoulders at him, I said nothing else.
"You tell them, mother,” Ben Barnes said with a vacant, faraway stare in his dead eyes. "You tell them how I ruined our lives."
Betty Barnes went to the window. She stooped over her folded arms as she walked. Staring straight ahead, she looked out across the Atlantic Ocean. No one could know what she saw. Wearing a freshly cleaned and ironed blue dress with little red and white deer patterned throughout the material, she had on no makeup or jewelry, only a thin, worn, gold wedding band.
Ben Barnes stared vacantly at the back of her head. His mouth hung loose, the single tooth shining in the dim light of the room.
Betty Barnes turned, holding the handkerchief as a crutch. There was something in her eyes which I knew she did not want to be there. "We had a grandson, Mr. Chamberlain. He did not turn out so good."
Chamberlain's eyes darted, his brain searching through memory, trying to place their grandson. Shifting position in the chair, he did not say anything.
Betty Barnes continued. "His name was Ansel. We raised him from a baby after his mother and father were killed in the boat accident over by Owl's Head. His mother was our daughter. We tried to raise him right, only we did something wrong. I don't know what. He left home when he was seventeen and went to Chicago. The only time he'd ever contact us was when he was in trouble, or needed money." She paused and looked back out to sea. She was a thin restless woman with delicate features that made her look beautiful for a few years of adulthood and never afterward.
Yeah, I thought to myself. How many times have I heard this same, sad lament from parents and grandparents?
"I remember the accident,” Chamberlain said. "An explosion caused by gas vapors in the bilge."
"Our grandson was killed when he was twenty-five years old,” she said, ignoring Chamberlain. "We don't know how he died. The police said he drowned in some canal in Chicago. We had the body shipped back and buried over in Port Clyde. That's where our family plot's located, over in Port Clyde."
"He was murdered,” the old man said suddenly. His stare still vacant and unfocused.
Betty Barnes said, "About six months after we buried Ansel, a man came to the house. He said Ansel owed his boss a great deal of money and he expected us to pay it. He said Ansel bragged that we were rich art collectors and would take care of the debt. My husband told him to leave. We wouldn't be paying any money. The man laughed and said we'd pay, one way or the other."
"When did all this happen?" Chamberlain asked, leaning back in his chair, and crossing his legs.
"It started about two years ago. They threatened us in every way possible. They wouldn't let us alone." She twisted the handkerchief into a tight spiral.
"They threatened to kill Mother and send her to me a piece at a time,” Ben Barnes said, shaking violently, spilling the dark, purple liquid on his shirt. "I got scared, Mr. Chamberlain. I'm a coward. I let Betty down. I gave in to them." Tears ran down the old man's cheeks.
"It's alright, Daddy,” his wife said, going over to his side, wiping the tears from his face and the wine from his shirt. "You did the best you could."
"Why didn't you go to the police, or call my office?" Chamberlain asked, his face reddening.
"Because they said if we contacted the authorities they would kill us both." Betty Barnes clasped her hands together. "No one could stop them. We were helpless, don't you understand? Helpless."
Chamberlain did not press the point. It was useless.
"We're not rich,” she continued. "We had enough saved to live out our lives comfortably here on Monhegan Island. We are not wealthy art collectors. All we had was Rockwell Kent's works. My mother was his aunt. When Rockwell's mother died, she left my mother all the things she had of her son. We ended up with it, and this house. Rockwell built it himself for his mother. We added to the collection during the years."
"How much were these people from Chicago trying to get out of you?" Chamberlain asked.
"All we had,” the old man said.
"It started with a hundred thousand,” Betty Barnes said. "Then the man told us the interest on the debt was doubling each week."
We know these extortionists, I wanted to scream. Instead, I let Chamberlain bring it out in his own way.
"What did you mean when you said you ruined your lives?" Chamberlain asked Ben Barnes.
He did not answer. Tears ran down his cheeks. His frail hands shook, his mouth quivered.
"He feels he failed because he couldn't protect us from these people,” his wife said, patting his shoulder. "That's nonsense. No one could have done anything about these vultures."
Yes, I wanted to shout. There is something you could have done.
"What finally happened?" Chamberlain asked.
"My husband offered them the art collection if they'd leave us alone."
"Who were they?"
"The one killed over in Port Clyde. The Bilotti man,” she said. "His boss had a funny name. I can't say it."
"Anastasio?" I asked.
"Yes, that's it." She looked up at me and nodded.
"What happened to the art collection?" Chamberlain asked.
"This Bilotti fellow, he took some of it to show his boss a few weeks ago. Then he came and got the rest of it the night he was killed."
"How did he move it?"
"He brought a man with him who crated it up. They flew it out in a helicopter. It took them three trips to get all forty-eight pieces hauled away."
Glancing over at Chamberlain, I said, "The helicopter has a small cabin and the paintings are bulky." He nodded. "Was the man that Bilotti brought with him named Rinaldi?" I asked.
"I don't know. We never heard his name."
"Nat," the old man said. "He called him Nat."
Reaching into my jacket pocket, I took out the photos of Nat Rinaldi and Tony Bilotti. "Are these the two?"
They both looked at the pictures, nodding in unison.
"You never saw or spoke to the boss, the one named Anastasio?" I asked.
"No, only the one called Bilotti,” Betty Barnes answered.
For some reason, I felt it necessary to explain to these two old people that Nat Rinaldi was not a member of a crime family.
"Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, I just want you both to understand that the man, Nat Rinaldi, did not work for Anastasio. He was a legitimate art dealer from New Orleans."
"Then why was he here working with this thug, Bilotti?" Betty Barnes asked, shaking her head.
It was a fair question. I explained how Anastasio was going to give the artwork to his wife. That it was the wrong artist. That Rinaldi was going to buy the entire collection from him.
"How much was Mr. Rinaldi going to pay?" She asked.
Another good question.
"A half million."
"Ha,” she muttered. "It was worth twice that amount."
"I gave it to them, sir,” the old man said to me, tears continuing to flow down his wrinkled, weathered face. "I just gave it all to them. Our entire investment we had worked so hard for. I've ruined everything." Heavy sobs wracked his entire body.
Betty Barnes stood beside her husband, patting his frail, drooping shoulder.