“I’m sure,” I said. “Ask Oliver Underwood and Velcro. They can vouch for me.”
“I don’t talk cat,” said Dom.
“The lady is wrong,” I said.
“What have you got against Abigail Highsmith?”
“I don’t know her. I’ve never seen her.”
“Why don’t you drive up here and see me? Now would be a good time.”
I wondered what burr was under Dom’s saddle. Maybe he’d tell me. “I’m on my way,” I said.
“What was that all about?” asked Zee, frowning.
I told her, then said, “Don’t worry. Dom is a smart guy. He knows I wasn’t up-island when Abigail Highsmith crashed.”
“Dom is a cop,” said Zee, frowning still more. “You shouldn’t be talking to him without a lawyer.”
“I don’t need a lawyer to find out what’s bothering Dom,” I said. “I’ll be back soon.”
“If you won’t call Norman Aylward, I will,” said Zee, and she was walking toward the phone when I went out the door.
The state police barracks is on Temahigan Avenue in Oak Bluffs, not far from the Martha’s Vineyard hospital where Zee works. The building was for many years painted a rather garish blue but is now shingled in weathered cedar and looks much more Vineyardish. I parked in the lot in back and went into Dom’s office. He and his underling, Officer Olive Otero, were both there.
Olive and I, for some reason, had never hit it off. We were like oil and water, fire and ice, Rome and Carthage. Dom and I, on the other hand, had gone fishing together now and then.
Now, Dom waved me to a chair in front of his desk while Olive eyed me without affection.
“What’s gotten your feathers ruffled?” I asked, sitting down.
“This,” said Dom. He handed me a stack of photographs of old and young jeeplike vehicles. “Joanne Homlish went through these and picked out your truck without even hesitating. She knows what she saw.”
I went through the pile and there, sure enough, was a photo of a Toyota Land Cruiser. The truck in the photo was new when the picture had been taken years before and it was painted yellow, whereas mine was ancient, rusty, and faded blue; but it was a picture of my vehicle model, all right. I looked in the small print and confirmed that the truck in the picture was a 1961 model. Bingo again.
“Where do you come up with this stuff?” I asked. “I thought you only kept mug shots and fingerprints.”
“The arm of the law is long,” said Dom. He leaned forward on his elbows. “Well, what do you say now? How many 1961 Land Cruisers do you think there are on this island, anyway? Do you still say you were at home with the kitties that afternoon?”
I glanced at Olive, saw a grim smile on her face, and looked back at Dom. “There are a lot of old off-road vehicles on the island and I was home with the kitties. Does Joanne Homlish wear glasses? Does she drive with them or just read with them?”
“She gave me the name of her optometrist and I called him. He says all she needs to read are those drugstore specs and that her distance vision is fine.”
“Was she sober?”
“As a judge.” Then he seemed to remember some of the judges with whom he’d had dealings, and added, “I’m speaking figuratively, of course.”
“Was she high on something?”
“No.”
“Had she forgotten her medication?”
“No.”
“In that case, she’s either lying or imagining things or there’s another truck that looks like mine here on the island. I imagine there are several.”
He stared at me. “You ever hear of Occam’s razor?”
I couldn’t resist gesturing toward Olive. “Everybody but Olive, here, has heard of Occam’s razor. You’re pushing the notion that the simplest explanation that’s consistent with the facts is probably the truth.”
He nodded. “It usually works out that way.”
I smiled at Olive and saw that she was seething, then looked back at Dom. “In this case one fact doesn’t fit: I was home with the cats and my truck was with me.” I had a thought. “Say, Joanne Homlish isn’t one of those plover people, is she? The ones who think I’m Satan himself when I complain about the Norton Point Beach being closed every summer so the plover chicks can fledge?”
“Easy, Olive,” said Dom. “No, J.W., she’s not one of those people. In fact, when your name came up, she said she’d never heard of you.”
So much for revenge as a motive for lying about me and my truck. Of course, Joanne might have had her own reasons for doing it, but I remembered Zee saying that she believed the woman who’d seen the accident.
Olive could restrain herself no longer. “Why don’t you save us a lot of time and effort and come clean, Jackson? We know it was you!”
I didn’t look at her. “You don’t even know how to spell your name, Olive. Now be quiet before Dom has to send you to your room.”
“You . . . !”
“Stop it!” said Dom. “Both of you!”
“Sure,” I said, and smiled again at Olive, who was pushing her lips together so hard they looked like they hurt, while her eyes blazed at me.
“Just so you’ll know where you stand,” said Dom, “I showed her a picture of you, but she didn’t recognize you.”
“Because I wasn’t there.”
“Because all she saw was the back of the driver’s head. The reason I’m not pushing this harder is because Abigail Highsmith insisted that nobody drove her off the road, that she just had an accident.”
We stared at each other. Then I said, “But you don’t believe her.”
He shrugged.
I said, “You don’t believe her, but you do believe Joanne Homlish.”
“And we don’t believe you, either,” snapped Olive, unable to hold her tongue another moment.
“Which brings me to my earlier question,” said Dom, waving a silencing forefinger at Olive. “What have you got against Abigail Highsmith? I know that you and her husband had a scuffle, but what’s that got to do with Abigail?”
“Yeah,” said Olive, ignoring the forefinger. “Were you so sore about her husband that you decided to take it out on her? That sounds like something you might do!”
“Dom,” I said. “You should keep your attack dog here caged at least until you feed her. Loose and hungry like this, she’s liable to bite herself to death.”
“I said to stop it!” said Dom, this time in his I-don’t-want-to-say-this-again voice.
“Sure,” I said. “No problem. Back to your question, I don’t have anything against Abigail. Like I said, I’ve never even met her. For that matter, I only saw her husband that one time in the fish market, and I wouldn’t have known who he was if somebody hadn’t identified him.”
“You saw him again in the sand trap.”
True. “You’re right. I was there when you dug him up. That’s twice, I guess.”
“Tell me again about the scuffle in the fish market,” said Dom.
Police often have people tell them about events several times, in case details change. And they often do, because the people remember things they’d forgotten or forget things they’d remembered before. Or, if they’re lying, they lie differently, adding or subtracting or changing what they’d said before. Out of all this, the police hope to find out what really happened.
I told him what happened. When I was done, he said, “That’s not how Annie Duarte saw it. She says you started it and would probably have killed Highsmith if you hadn’t had witnesses.”
I was already annoyed with Annie Duarte. I said, “Annie Duarte and Joanne Homlish aren’t sisters, are they? Neither one of them seems to know what she’s looking at.”
Dom smiled coldly. “They may make good witnesses in court.”
Court had not been mentioned before. “There were several people in the fish market,” I said. “Annie Duarte isn’t the only one who saw what happened. Check out some of the other witnesses before you decide what really went on.”
“You don’t need to tell us how to do our job!” snapped Olive.
“This is the third time I’ve told you two to cut that crap,” said Dom in a mild voice that deceived no one. “I’m not going to say it again.” He looked at Olive and she seemed to shrink inside her uniform. Then he looked back at me.
“Officer Otero is correct,” he said. “I don’t know yet what’s going on here, but we have a probable murder and a possible assault that may be linked, and you’ve been tied to both victims. If I were you, I’d give thought to getting myself a lawyer. Meanwhile, stay out of our way and let us handle this.”
“Sure,” I said, hearing anger in my voice. “You already think I may be involved in both of these felonies, but you want me to trust you to do your jobs. I’d trust you a lot more if you hadn’t already made up your minds!”
Dom’s voice was intended to be soothing. “Nobody’s mind has been made up, J.W.”
I stared at him and he stared back. I tried to push my anger and fear away, but only partially succeeded.
“Are we through here?” I asked.
Dom nodded. “For the time being, but don’t take any long trips. I may want to talk with you again.”
“I live in paradise,” I said. “Why would I want to leave?” I got up and went to the door and stopped. “I had nothing to do with Highsmith’s death or his wife’s accident,” I said.
“So you say.”
I went out, feeling Dom’s cold eyes and Olive’s hot ones on my back.
As I drove home, I fought against both my fear and my anger. I felt trapped. I didn’t like it, and worked to control my emotions before I got back to the house.
There, Zee was preparing supper. She stopped and came to meet me. “What happened, Jeff?”
I put my arms around her. “Nothing, really. Dom just wanted to go over some old stuff again. You know how cops are. They like to be sure of things.”
“I phoned Norman Aylward. We have an appointment with him tomorrow afternoon.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’m sure we won’t need his help, but it won’t hurt to let him know what’s going on.”
“Good. I’ll feel a lot better if Norman’s working for us.” Zee kissed me and went back to the stove.
I went into the bedroom and dug a phone book out of the drawer in the bedside table. There, right where it should be, was a telephone number and a West Tisbury address for Marty and Joanne Homlish. I then looked for Annie Duarte, but although there were a lot of Duartes on Martha’s Vineyard, there was no Annie listed. No matter; I could find her when I needed to. While I was at it, I looked for a Henry Highsmith, and found only one. He had lived off Middle Road in Chilmark. Two hits in three tries. If the noose I felt around my neck didn’t start loosening soon, I’d know where to begin unknotting it.