Olive Otero didn’t think much of my alibi when I offered it to Dom the next morning.
“Joshua and Diana are right out there in my truck, waiting for me to finish this interview,” I said. “They’ll tell you where I was all day. Or you can check out Cottle’s lumberyard. I bought supplies there yesterday and I can show you some of them up in that oak tree where I was working during the afternoon.”
Dom looked at me. “Did you come here just to tell me you didn’t shoot Abigail Highsmith?’
“And to point out that if I didn’t shoot her, I probably also didn’t try to run her off the road and probably also didn’t bury Henry in that sand trap. How’s Abigail doing?”
He shrugged. “She’s still alive.”
“How’d it happen?”
“None of your business,” said Olive.
“She and the children were making funeral arrangements for Henry,” said Dom. “The boy and girl had gone ahead to the car when Abigail came out the front door. Shooter seems to have been standing in the bushes across the drive. Used a twenty-two and took just one shot. The funeral director heard a pop and glanced out a window as she went down. He ran out without thinking and must have spooked the gunman away. Probably saved her life. When we talked with him he was still shaking like a leaf. It had never occurred to him that there was a guy with a gun out there, and he got scared later.”
I didn’t blame him. “Rifle or pistol?”
“Pistol, probably. We found one casing. A bigger-caliber gun would probably have killed her.”
“Witnesses?”
“The kids were in the car and didn’t see anything and neither did anybody we’ve talked to so far, but maybe we’ll find one of those little old ladies who spends her time looking out her window to keep track of what the neighbors are up to.”
“How are the kids taking it?”
“They seem traumatized. No emotions at all. Like they’re in a dream. First their father and now their mother. The only adults left to look after them were the housekeeper and her husband, but now Abigail’s sister and her husband have flown in from Providence. The husband is with the kids here on the island and the sister is with Abigail in Boston.”
People get killed all the time and the motive is usually commonplace, but it was unusual for a husband and wife to be targeted by a killer at different times.
“Was the same gun used in both shootings?” I asked.
“We don’t know yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
If Dom was right, the killer had a lot of confidence. He killed once, then kept the same gun and used it again. It would have been safer to chuck the first gun off a bridge so that no one could find him with it or be able to trace it, and to use another one the second time and then ditch that one too. Another possibility was that our killer was dumb. Criminals, even the smart ones, famously do stupid things.
“Somebody must be pretty mad at the Highsmiths,” I said. “You usually don’t get dangerous enemies like that unless you’ve done something to anger or threaten them. Henry or Abigail could each have gotten into somebody’s sights, but it’s unlikely that both of them would have.”
Dom leaned back in his chair. “Maybe passions run high in the groves of academe. Henry had a temper, as you should know. Maybe Abigail was just as bad. Maybe they really pissed off a dean or a student or something. People in Providence and New Haven are checking that out.”
I thought back to the scene in the fish market. “It was my impression that when Henry got pushy with me, he was already mad about something and was just taking it out on me.”
“He got mad because you started a fight with him,” said Olive.
I ignored her. “And didn’t Abigail insist that nobody had forced her off the road even though Joanne Homlish vowed that someone did? Doesn’t that make you think something strange was going on that each of the Highsmiths knew about but didn’t want to discuss?”
“Like what?” asked Dom, lacing his thick fingers behind his thick neck.
I didn’t know and said so.
“No surprise there,” said Olive. “Is there anything you do know?”
“Not much as far as this business goes,” I said. “Dom, do you know if Henry Highsmith played golf?”
He arched a heavy brow. “No, but I know that he did a lot of railing against this Pin Oaks proposal and made himself a lot of enemies doing it.”
I said, “Do you think there’s something funny about Henry Highsmith being buried in a sand trap and his wife being shot coming out of a funeral parlor?”
“There’s nothing funny about murder,” snapped Olive.
I nodded. “You and I may not think so, but I believe your killer thinks it’s a good joke to bury a golf hater on a golf course and to kill a woman at a funeral home. It’s twisted humor, but it’s humor.”
She wasn’t biting. “How about the bicycle accident? What’s funny about that?”
“Bike enthusiast killed in biking accident. Your killer likes irony. It amuses him.”
“It’s childish!”
“A lot of killers are childish, Olive.”
“I’ve read Kohlberg. I know his theory.” Her voice was sharp but her face had become thoughtful.
I was surprised by her reading tastes but probably shouldn’t have been. People are almost always different than you think they are, and Olive was apparently no exception.
“I know you’ve talked with some people already,” I said. “Did you happen to find out why Henry Highsmith was in the Edgartown fish market when he tangled with me?”
Dom tilted his head. “No, I didn’t, but my guess would be that he went there to buy fish.”
“Yeah,” said Olive.
“Yeah, probably,” I said. “But why there?”
Dom’s head stayed tilted. “What are you getting at?”
I said, “I mean that the only Henry Highsmith I found in the phone book lives up in Chilmark. The nearest fish market is right there in Menemsha, but Henry rode all the way to Edgartown on his bike to buy fish. Why?”
Dom and Olive looked at each other.
“In a couple of his letters Highsmith made a big deal out of his daily ride from home through the three down-island towns and back again,” said Olive. “He probably wanted fish for supper, so he decided to buy it in Edgartown.”
“Maybe he always buys his fish at that market. We’ll see if we can find out,” said Dom. “You have any more questions or bright ideas you’d like to share, J.W.?”
I got up. “No. I’ve shot my wad, I think. I’ll go home and leave the detecting to you two. The kids and I have a rope bridge to build.”
Dom frowned. “A rope bridge?”
“Like in Tarzan and the Leopard Woman,” I said.
“Hey,” exclaimed Olive, surprising me for the second time in five minutes, “I saw that movie when I was a kid! Tarzan and the Leopard Woman. Great! Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan.” She looked at Dom. “When I was a little girl I wanted to be Sheena. You remember Sheena? The female Tarzan? That looked like a good life to me, living there in a tree with Bob, wearing nothing but a leopard-skin bikini. Terrific!”
Dom studied us. “I’ve heard about Tarzan and I used to read about Sheena in the comic books, but I’ve never seen a movie about either one of them. Did I live a culturally deprived childhood?”
Olive and I found ourselves looking at each other and nodding. It was the first thing we’d agreed about in as long as I could remember.
“Yes, you did,” I said.
“Yes, you did,” echoed Olive.
I left the two of them to continue their discussion of crime and culture and went out to the Land Cruiser, where my children were playing Crazy Eights. Crazy Eights and Hearts are two great kid games: they last a long time and all you need is a deck of cards.
“Pa, are we going to work some more on the bridge now?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Are you through talking with the police?”
“Yes, I am.”
When we came out of the parking lot, I turned left, then left again onto Eastville Avenue, then right onto County Road. Somewhere near the old Tradewinds Airport I became aware of a car close behind me. I’m not the island’s fastest driver, so having a car behind me wasn’t unusual. This car, however, was too close, so I pulled to the right and slowed down so it could pass. But it didn’t pass, and I speeded up again. So did the car.
I was very conscious of having my children with me. I tried using my rearview mirror but could see nothing of who was driving or how many people might be in the car. I speeded up even more and so did the car. I slowed down and so did the car.
Just before the intersection with the Edgartown-Vineyard Haven road is an entrance to the Jardin Mahoney garden center, which is always busy during the summer. I braked hard and turned in, hearing the angry squeal of brakes behind me before the car followed me. I slipped into a parking place between two cars where ladies with happy faces were loading plants into their trunks, jumped out, and watched the car slow and then drive on. Through an open window I saw an angry face and a clenched fist that became the bird, and heard a furious voice say, “Killer! We’ll find you again!” And then the car was gone.
Although I was glad to spend the rest of the day working on the rope bridge, I had a hard time getting that face and fist out of my mind. It wasn’t easy. I finally managed it by trying to imagine Olive Otero as Sheena. That wasn’t easy either.
By the time Zee got home from work, we had finished building most of the platform in the oak tree. It was about six-by-eight and was supported partially by limbs and partially by struts attached to the trunk of the tree, and it had a space cut for the trapdoor that would lead down to the short rope walkway that led to the ground.
It was a good day’s work, and the kids and I celebrated honest weariness with lemonade and oatmeal cookies.
Zee was impressed when Joshua and Diana led her out to show her the progress we had made, and we all basked in her praise. Indoors again, I poured big-people drinks and put nibblies on a plate and Zee and I went up to the balcony. Joshua and Diana, not to be outdone, climbed into the tree house with their food and drink.
I thought about the car that had followed me and was in no mood to make a complicated supper. Maybe pizza. It was too late to make my own, but I could order a couple and bring them home. My dry mouth moistened. Pizza, made right, is food for the gods. You could probably live a long, healthy life eating nothing but pizza.
I proposed my plan to Zee, who predictably thought it was a fine idea.
“You three did good work today,” she said.
“A few more days and we should be done.” I told her about Olive Otero being a Tarzan and Sheena fan.
“Well, well,” said Zee. “Maybe the two of you can now stop scratching at each other’s eyes and become pals, united by fantasies about Hollywood jungles. That would be nice. I’m sure that Dom would be greatly relieved.”
I tried to imagine Olive and me as pals. Stranger things have probably happened, but I couldn’t think of one.
“Speaking of Olive,” said Zee, “guess who came into the ER today. Nathan Shelkrott, Wilma’s husband.”
“Who’s Nathan Shelkrott and what’s he got to do with Olive?”
Zee gave me a patient look. “He doesn’t have anything to do with Olive, but Olive is a police officer and the police are investigating these Highsmith shootings, so when you mentioned Olive it reminded me of Nathan coming in, because Nathan and Wilma both work for the Highsmiths. She’s the housekeeper and he does all of the outdoor work. I’ve known Wilma for years. I’m sure I’ve mentioned her name to you.”
I remembered that Dom had mentioned a housekeeper. “What was Nathan doing in the ER?”
“He had chest pains, so Wilma drove him to the hospital. He’s had a little heart trouble in the past and they were both worried. The tests didn’t show anything, but they’re keeping him for the night. They think he’s just stressed out, which would be understandable. First Henry Highsmith and now his wife. What next? It’s as though the whole Highsmith household is part of a Greek tragedy.”
“How’s your friend Wilma holding up?”
“She’s worried.” Zee sipped her drink. “But then, Wilma has looked worried for a long time. She has one of those troubled faces, but usually if you ask her what’s the matter she always says it’s nothing. This time, though, she didn’t say that. She said it was getting to be too much for Nathan. First the Willet girl and now these shootings. I asked her what she meant, but she just shook her head and walked away.”
I said, “Who’s the Willet girl?”
“You remember,” said Zee. “She’s the girl who drowned at Great Rock.”
“Ah, yes. Your friend Wilma didn’t explain what she meant?”
“No.”
“I have some odd news,” I said, and I told her about the incident with the car.
“Maybe it was just road rage,” I added. “There are a lot of crazy people around these days.”
Zee didn’t like that theory. “Do you think that’s what it was?”
“Maybe.”
“I think you should tell the police. Did you see the license plate?”
“No, I missed it.”
“I don’t think a road-rage person would have said what he said. I want you to call the police right now.”
It was the advice I’d have given in her place. “Maybe you’re right,” I said, and I went down to the phone and talked to Dom Agganis.
“That’s not much for us to go on,” said Dom. “You be careful for the next few days. My guess is that somebody’s decided that you’re in the middle of this Highsmith business whether you think you are or not.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said, and went back up to the balcony.
I sipped my drink and looked out over our garden. Beyond the barrier beach on the far side of the pond, white boats were moving over Nantucket Sound, heading for anchorages through the slanting light of late afternoon. I watched them cutting through the same sea that had drowned the Willet girl and thought of the ancient faith wherein beauty and death are part of the same cosmic dance.