Chamberlain guided us through tall, old growth spruce trees, thick with animals and birds, to the edge of a steep, black rock precipice. The Monhegan Associates had indeed kept this part of the island in a pristine, natural state.
Out to sea, a quarter of a mile or so, the headlands, White Head and Black Head, rose more than one hundred and fifty feet out of the purple ocean. Nearby Gull Rock, one hundred feet high, stood stark and alone.
We were silent for a long time, looking, feeling, experiencing the moment. I thought that I would not mind having to look at this sight forever and that I would not mind never seeing it again. I would always have the memory. It had indeed been worth the trip.
"You know, J.L., maybe Anastasio is telling the truth. Bilotti could have been ripping the Barnes' off. Anastasio may have given him the money to pay them. At least some amount he thought fair after deducting their grandson's debt, plus interest. Maybe Bilotti pocketed the difference. Anastasio found out and whacked him."
"It's a thought."
"Yes, but why kill Rinaldi? Where's the art collection, the money? How was it all done? I want another face to face with Mr. Anastasio."
Chamberlain looked closely at me. A grin formed in one corner of his mouth, then spread across his entire face. "I was hoping you would."
Off in the distance we watched a ship working against the heavy running sea. She would climb a wave, fall off and almost disappear, only to emerge again, spray flying like sparkling diamonds across her bow.
Chamberlain pointed, "There's your ride, the MOMA C., and young Captain Barstein making another run. Come on, if we hurry we'll have time for some of Shorty's smoked cod before sailing for Port Clyde."
Returning through the forest was as interesting as it had been coming to the headland. Wind whistling through the tall spruce made a pleasant sound.
Shorty's smoked cod was outstanding. We washed it down with a bottle of red wine of unknown origin. It was not Domaine Romanee-Conti, but it was excellent with the hard bread and cod. When queried, Shorty said he had salvaged six cases of the wine from a shipwreck more than three decades ago. All the labels had washed off or fell away years before. The only word he remembered from one of the labels was Hermitage.
Could be, I thought. A wine from the Rhone Valley. The bottle was the right color and shape, but it could have been any one of hundreds.
"Thanks, Shorty,” Chamberlain said, as we were leaving. "Good to see you again. You need to come and see Kathleen. I would do it pretty soon."
"I don't know, J.L." He looked down, scratched the floor with his shoe. "I'm not too good at that sort of thing. Tell her I love her."
"I understand, old friend. I'll give her your love."
We shook hands. J.L. and I walked down to the dock where the MOMA C. was waiting.
Captain Barstein greeted us at the gangway. "Seas are running good, Gentlemen." There was a telling grin slanting downward from the ribbed scar. "You're welcome to ride in the wheelhouse."
"No,” Chamberlain answered. "We're going to go below. We have some things to talk about."
"Suit yourself,” Barstein muttered, disappearing forward.
Once away from the lee of the island, the MOMA C. rolled, pitched, and yawed violently in the heavy sea. It was making me a little queasy. Chamberlain seemed unaffected. There were six other people in the cabin with us who did not seem to notice the movement of the ship. My smoked cod began to have doubts about staying put.
"You look a little green around the gills,” Chamberlain said, smiling. "You going to be alright?"
"Yeah, always get a little queasy the first couple of days at sea. It's nothing serious."
"Any more thoughts about Anastasio?"
Steadying myself with an arm to keep from banging into the side of the bunk we were sitting in, I said, "We need to look seriously into Bilotti working his own extortion scam. Maybe Rinaldi was just an unlucky person."
"It doesn't explain the bodies being in two different places, though. They should have been shot together. Where is the art collection? I can see the money vanishing, but what does one do with the paintings, drawings, prints, and all the other works the Barnes' said Bilotti took. They had to make three helicopter trips to haul it off the island."
"It's got to be somewhere. Maybe Sandy can find out if any of it turns up on the market." Swallowing hard, I forced the cod out of my esophagus, back down into my stomach. "Surely there is some sort of a network in the fine arts world where things are bought and sold. I'll call her tonight."
"Good idea." Reaching an arm out, Chamberlain steadied himself as the ship fell off a wave and shuddered.
Suddenly I had another thought. "You know, J.L., Anastasio's airplane, the G-IV, is certainly big enough to carry the art collection. We've got to find out who the helicopter operator was that made all the flights to Monhegan, and where he took the cargo."
"There are only two helicopter operators in the area. They are not allowed to land on Monhegan."
"Yes, but a chopper could have been hired from anywhere, and ignored the regulations. It could have been Anastasio's own personal helicopter."
"You have a good investigative mind." The seat cushion squeaked slightly as Chamberlain repositioned himself.
"Thank you." I held on to the MOMA C., swallowing hard. "We might not see eye to eye on everything, J.L., but at least we're always looking at the same thing." Grinning, I stood and started for the head. The cod had won their battle for freedom.
* * *
As soon as the MOMA C. docked at Port Clyde we walked over to the chandlery so Chamberlain could phone to check on his wife. I browsed among the aisles while he called.
The lady who I met before was working, putting up canned goods on shelves along one side of an entire wall. Tables in the center of the building held all sorts of goods; pants, shirts, shoes, rain slickers. Seamen's gear. Picking up a wool cap, I thought about buying it.
"Get cold enough where you're from to wear wool?" Asked the woman, with a smile.
"Not often." I put the cap back and picked up a brightly colored scarf.
"You and J.L. find out anything more on what happened to those two dead guys?"
"We're working on it." Putting the scarf back on the table, I was suddenly alert to her question. "You wouldn't have heard anything, would you?"
"Nah." She shoved a case of Vienna sausage along the floor with her foot. "If I had, I would have called J.L."
"Yes, of course." I glanced around at the other merchandise. Unless you have a vested interest, I thought.
Chamberlain walked up. "Bill says Kathleen's doing fine. She's back at the house. You mind if we stop by on the way in? I'd like to check on her."
"Certainly not."
"Afternoon, Annie,” Chamberlain said to the woman. "How's your Mama doing these days?"
"She's fine, J.L. How's Kathleen?" She stacked the cans of Vienna sausage on the shelf beside the Spam.
"Holding her own, I guess. Business any better?"
"Mighty slow." She threw the empty cardboard box at a pile of other empties in the far corner behind the counter. "Season starts next month, thank goodness. I hope it's a good one. God knows, we need it."
"Yeah, don't we all. Well, we'll see you, Annie. Keep your husband in line, and say hello to your Mama for me."
"I will, J.L. The same to Kathleen."
We walked out to Chamberlain's car. "In case you didn't know,” he said, unlocking his door and flipping a switch to unlock mine. "Annie is young Captain Barstein's wife."
"No, I did not know. They failed to mention that fact the first time I was here." Annie and the Captain, I thought. A half a million in cash...
"Annie's Mama is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s." J.L. shook his head, and started the car. "That's rough."
Fastening my seat belt, I said, "Whatever else happens to me, I hope that I do not outlive my brain."
We drove in silence to Chamberlain's house. Kathleen was resting in one of the wooden rocking chairs on the wide front porch of Owl's Head. The wind was calm, but a chill was still in the air. She was wrapped in a blanket, head tilted to one side as if asleep. A gray-haired, elderly lady sat in a swing next to her, reading.
Kathleen stirred as we walked up on the porch. J.L. went to her and kissed her lightly on the mouth. She smiled weakly and held her hand up to touch his face. "How was your trip to Monhegan?"
"Fine, fine. We saw Shorty. He sends his love." J.L. embraced his wife tenderly.
"Oh, Mr. Leicester." Kathleen looked at me. "It's good to see you again. I'm sorry I can't get up. I'm a little weak."
"I understand." Walking over, I took her hand in mine. "How are you feeling?"
"Besides being a little queasy, I'm fine. Bill gave me one of his magic potions." She attempted a smile. "J.L., please introduce Mr. Leicester to Nora."
Chamberlain introduced me to Nora Welsh as a close friend who stayed with Kathleen when he was away. She had a slender body; its lines long, fragile, and so exaggerated that she appeared unreal. She had gray eyes that were not ovals, but two long slits, and a narrow, vicious mouth. There was an air of cold serenity about her.
Nora Welsh was reading a book titled, A HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE. I had an inscribed copy by the author, Ernest K. Gann.
"Great book,” I said to her.
"Yes." She held up the book as if seeing it for the first time. Her skin was clear, almost translucent, and transmitted a faintly crimsoned, peach-glow of health. "My husband knew Mr. Gann. They both flew for American Airlines, and for the Air Transport Command in World War Two. Wendall was killed then, Mr. Gann was not."
"I'm sorry. We lost a lot of pilots in that war. I read recently where Mr. Gann died."
She looked strangely at me and smiled. It was not a happy smile; it was not a graceful one. It was a simple, easy smile and it was amused. "Yes, we all do, don't we?"
J.L. rescued me. "We've got to run into town. I'll be back in a couple of hours, Nora." He kissed Kathleen good-bye. We left.
"Strange woman, Nora Welsh."
J.L. laughed. "You don't know the half of it. I'll only say this about Nora; she's a true genius. A four page resume. Three degrees from MIT, speaks seven languages. Her field is Computer Science. She was a colleague of Admiral Grace Murray Hopper, the inventor of computer business language. They worked together building the first computer ever, for the Navy."
"She should make for an interesting evening of conversation."
"I used to leave the room when she and Kathleen got into one of their intellectual debates. Feelings of inadequacy would flow over me like a tidal wave. I was forced to leave, or be severely embarrassed."
"Let's stop by the airport,” I said, changing the subject before Chamberlain asked me what I knew about computers. "Maybe some of the local pilots could help us with this helicopter thing."
"Good idea. We can check with the two local helicopter operators later. They both fly from the docks, downtown."
The airport was strangely quiet in the dusk-dark of the late evening. There has always been something intriguing about lonely airports at night. I've never been quite sure what.
Chamberlain stopped in front of the FBO where Anastasio's G-IV had parked. We walked inside.
In the lobby of the brightly-lighted fixed-base operation an instructor and student were sitting at a table going over a flight plan. A lineman sat listening, obviously a student, also. They looked up as we entered. We were intruders in their world, a world I had been an intimate part of many years ago. A world I sometimes missed so desperately it ached.
"Hello, Gentlemen,” Chamberlain said. "This is Investigator Leicester. I'm Detective J.L. Chamberlain, Rockland Police Department. We want to ask you some questions about helicopter operations around here a week or so ago."
The three men looked at each other and laughed. It was puzzling. They seemed downright disrespectful.
Then the young lineman spoke up. "Oh, Mr. J.L., what you trying to pull with that formal sounding stuff? You helped raise all three of us, coached our Little League teams. Mr. Leicester, we know about him, the private investigator from down south, working with you on those two murders."
Small towns...
Chamberlain laughed. "Bill, Carl, Junior. Last week a helicopter made several trips to Monhegan. Had to refuel somewhere. We thought maybe it could have been here."
Junior, the lineman, stood up and scratched his head. "Last week? Yeah, an old FH-1100. I fueled him twice. I didn't know he was running to Monhegan, though. That's illegal."
Jackpot! I though to myself.
"How did he pay?" J.L. asked.
"Credit card." Junior's young face lit up. "I've still got the original hard copies. We send this month's receipts in to the Oil Company next week."
"Jackpot," I said out loud this time. "Did they transfer any cargo from the helicopter to an airplane? Maybe to the G-IV that landed here the other day? Did it come in before and pickup the cargo?"
Junior looked at us with a blank expression. "I didn't see any cargo. I remember a pilot, two passengers, but no cargo."
Scratching the back of my head, I said, "They must have off-loaded it somewhere else."
"Yeah, but where?" Chamberlain said, following Junior behind the counter to get the credit card receipts.
"That helicopter wasn't from around here,” the flight instructor offered. "I'd guess Portland or Augusta."
"How do you know it's not from around here?" I asked.
He looked at me with the tolerance the young sometimes have for the aged. It made me feel stupid, rather than old.
"Both helicopters operating out of Rockland are Hughes 500's. They are based down at the docks. You can check."
"I'll take your word for it,” I said, trying to salvage some dignity. He smiled.
Chamberlain returned with the tickets. "Come on, let's go to the office. We can check this out from there."
On the way back to the police department, I looked at the credit card receipts. The imprint read: WHOPPER CHOPPERS--YOU CALL, WE HAUL. 1386 Airport Boulevard, Portland, Maine.
Holding the receipts up to Chamberlain, I said, "We may have a break with this. They can tell us a lot."
"Let's hope." He accelerated around a line of slow moving cars. "Let us hope."