Death of a Wharf Rat Read online

  “Three months ahead of time?” Merry said, aghast.

  “This is a destination wedding location. Heavily booked. That ten-thousand-dollar dance will cost closer to fifteen if you wait too long.”

  “I’ll take you to a nightclub on our honeymoon,” Peter whispered.

  “Deal,” Merry said.

  “One more thing.” George was looking carefully at Merry now. “Check with your dad. Not about the cost—that’s between you and Peter. But about John’s dance. His waltz with his only daughter—his only child—under a spotlight on her wedding night. Ask your grandfather whether he’s planning to whirl you around the floor, too. Because Ralph has the look of a proper gent. I wouldn’t put it past him to tango with my mother.”

  “Oh, geez,” Merry sighed, and put her face in her hands. Because of course George was right. Merry’s own mother was dead. Both John Folger and Ralph Waldo would think it necessary to send her off properly, and hold up the Folger end in the face of Mason millions.

  “There’s no way round it, is there?” Peter asked.

  “None,” George said complacently. “Now, about the valet parking . . .”

  Chapter Two

  John Folger, the former chief of Nantucket Police, parked his Jeep Wrangler near the Boat Basin and ambled contentedly through the tangle of tourists disembarking from the fast ferry. July Fourth weekend might be the most crowded and demanding of the summer, but he was blessedly unconcerned this year. He cared nothing for the Nobadeer Beach Party or its headaches. He wove past the Vineyard Vines store and made his way down Water Street, a man completely at ease.

  He was headed for a small shingle-covered cottage set on the pilings of Old North Wharf, one of the most picturesque and unspoiled spots to be found on the harbor. The Wharf Rat Club had a bright blue door framed in roses and hydrangeas. Its select group of members was male and female, islanders and Summer People, as it had been for over a hundred years; but a motto over the door proclaimed the club’s simple philosophy: No Seats Reserved for the Mighty. Influence could not get you into the Wharf Rats. Good fellowship and affability did.

  Portraits of past commodores and paintings of ships were ranged over the rough walls, with nautical charts and quarterboards from long-vanished vessels mounting to the rafters. The cottage had once been a quahog depot and Coffin’s Marine supply store for local fishermen, who held down the chairs around its potbellied stove, trading stories over their coffee mugs. President Franklin Roosevelt had sailed his yacht Amberjack into harbor during his first term and was immediately inducted as a member. So were writers and artists, sailors and ambassadors, Supreme Court Justice William J. Brennan, scientists, professors, scallopers, lightship-basket weavers, and a few sharks of American industry. Coffin’s store had disappeared long ago; now the stove and the room belonged entirely to the Wharf Rats. Their triangular black burgee sported a jaunty white rat smoking a pipe; it snapped vigorously in the breeze. Members wore the insignia pinned on their lapels and flew it on their boats and lawns.

  John’s father, Ralph Waldo Folger, had been a member of the club for over thirty years. John himself had been inducted only a month before. Until his resignation from the police force in January, he hadn’t had time to kick back with his friends on a summer afternoon.

  The club’s front door was propped open. So was the back door, which offered a fresh view of the harbor and Steamboat Wharf. A few faces floated in the murk between the two oblongs of light. One of them was Ralph’s. He was seated in an old wooden captain’s chair, engrossed in conversation. He turned as John threw himself into a chair beside him.

  “I was telling Spence,” he said without preamble, “that we ran into Nora a few weeks back. At the grocery store. You remember.”

  “Nora.” John glanced over at Ralph’s friend, his eyes adjusting to the dimness of the club interior. It was Spence Murphy, the celebrated foreign correspondent, in pressed chinos and a flat cap over his sparse gray hair. He wore an ancient field vest lined with pockets, a remnant from his reporting days.

  John remembered Nora, now—a slim half-Asian girl Ralph had hailed at the Stop & Shop deli counter. Spence’s adopted daughter, he’d said.

  “Right. Nora. How long is she staying with you?”

  “Who?” Spence asked, glancing from John to Ralph.

  “Nora,” Ralph said more loudly, as though Spence were deaf. “Your daughter.”

  Murphy shook his head slowly. “I haven’t seen her in years. And who’s this young man?”

  Ralph seemed taken aback. His white brows furled speculatively over his blue eyes.

  “I’m John Folger, sir. Ralph Waldo’s son.”

  “That’s grand,” Murphy said heartily. “Pleased to meet you. Are you going to join the Rats one day, too?”

  John frowned slightly. He’d been acquainted with Spencer Murphy for years, as he was with all of Ralph’s cronies, and Murphy had helped induct him into the club last month. “I’d be honored, of course,” he said.

  Ralph clapped Spence on the back. “For now we’ll just give him coffee.”

  John followed his father across the room to the mugs and creamer and the fresh smell of ground roasted beans. For reasons he didn’t like to examine, he was relieved to see that Ralph’s white beard was neatly trimmed, his collar sharply turned, his hands steady on the cup. His father was in his high eighties but remained a force to be reckoned with.

  “Sad,” Ralph murmured gruffly as he poured a mug. “Spence’s mind is slipping. I’ve suspected as much, but he’s managed to cover it pretty well. Compensate. They do, you know—in the early stages.”

  “Have you talked to his daughter about it? He has sons somewhere, too, doesn’t he?”

  “Boston and New York. But Spence lives alone. Barbara—his wife—died last year. He has a day woman come in, do his laundry, leave him dinner, that sort of thing. I suppose Nora’s not here anymore, since he says he hasn’t seen her in a while. He loses track of time. And faces.” Ralph followed Spence Murphy’s slow progress toward the clubhouse door. “He was a brilliant news guy, you know. One of the Greats.”

  “I know.”

  “His book on the secret war in Laos is one I’ll never forget.”

  “In the Cage of the Pathet Lao,” John said. “I’ve been meaning to read it, now that I’ve got more time on my hands. I’m sure it’s better than the movie.”

  “His description of the pullout from Long Tieng—and his own capture by the Communist insurgency—are riveting. You know he was kept in a bamboo cage for months before he escaped? Incredible journalism.”

  “Particularly when you realize he had no military training. It’s one thing to be a soldier in that situation, another to be a noncombatant. That’s part of what makes his account so powerful,” John mused. “It could have been any one of us. I’ve always wondered—if I’d made Billy talk to Spence before he enlisted for Iraq—”

  “It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Ralph Waldo said gently. Billy was John’s son, Ralph’s grandson, Merry’s older brother. He had died years ago in Fallujah. “Billy wanted to go.”

  “I know. But Spence knew so much about conflict. He had such moral authority.” John poured milk into his coffee and took a tentative sip. “I doubt the US would have resettled so many Hmong refugees after the Secret War if he hadn’t stirred the public’s outrage. He’s one of those reporters who kept us honest.”

  “Nora’s half-Hmong, you know. He brought her back on a later trip to the country—he was doing a report on the aftermath of the Hmong genocide. Trying to find out what happened to his Lao interpreter.”

  “His memories must be harrowing.”

  “His memories.” Ralph’s expression was somber. He glanced over his shoulder at Spence, who was staring blankly into space. “I wonder if he recognizes his own titles anymore. If I start to lose it, son, promise me you’ll shove me o
ut to sea. Put me in a boat and keep the oars. I don’t want to come back.”

  “Dad.” John grasped his father’s shoulder.

  Ralph sighed. “He’s younger than I am. By a good four years. God, how I hate watching my friends grow old.”

  “Then let’s get out of here,” John suggested, “and go fishing.”

  He’d bought a powerboat when he retired. It was the first toy he’d treated himself to in years.

  His father’s face lit up. “Tuckernuck?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d love to get over there again. It’s been a while.”

  Tuckernuck was the small barrier island, only nine hundred acres, that trailed off the western end of Nantucket. It was separated from its larger neighbor by several hundred yards of ocean and only reachable by boat. There were bluefish grounds off Tuck that were well worth visiting.

  John finished his mug of coffee and set it down near Ralph’s. Without another word, the two men made for the door.

  “That bluefish stinks,” Elliot Murphy said. He rolled down the Audi’s window and breathed deeply. Here was what he’d been missing in the summer stench of New York: salt ocean, roses, wild lavender, pine, and the dusky earth scent of sunstruck moors. The unmistakable smell of Nantucket. They were driving up Cobblestone Hill from the car ferry in a blaze of July sunshine. Andre had made him stop at the fish market on the way to the house.

  “You’re smelling hickory smoke.” Andre’s right hand grasped the leather ceiling strap as the car rocked over the roadbed. His other grasped the collar of their Westie, MacTavish. “And you love my pâté. So does Spence. Throw in some gin and lime and we won’t need dinner.”

  “I’ve got reservations.”

  “Of course you do.” He glanced at Elliot. “Are we taking Spence?”

  “He won’t want to come. He can’t track our voices over the noise of a restaurant.” It wasn’t just Spence’s hearing that was failing, of course—he had difficulty tracking any conversation these days. But Elliot left that thought unspoken. He didn’t have to state the obvious to Andre.

  Elliot pulled off Lincoln into Step Above’s quahog shell drive. The grass strip down the middle was parched and weedy. The house’s white trim was peeling. A garden hose snaked through the unmown lawn. Elliot surveyed the house with the sharp eye of the real estate agent he was. It had fifteen rooms, and sat on nearly an acre of land behind mature hedges in one of the most sought-after areas of the island. But the house needed re-shingling and a new roof. The privet hedges were wildly overgrown. It was far too valuable a property to neglect. He’d have to talk to Dad this week and set up some workmen while he was here.

  Roseline’s aged sedan was pulled up before the door. He felt a breath of relief; he’d forgotten she was coming every day, now. That meant the sheets had been changed and fresh towels put out. She’d have Dad’s dinner ready, so there’d be no fuss when they left for town.

  The Westie, MacTavish, jumped down from Andre’s lap and bolted for the door. Roseline opened it a second later and Tav rose on his hind legs, panting in greeting.

  “Mr. Elliot! Your father never told me you were coming!”

  “No?” He’d called Spence last week. He’d thought his dad was pleased.

  “And Mr. Andre!” Roseline put up her cheek to be kissed; she was fond of Elliot’s partner. They were both of Haitian descent, although Andre was third-generation American and she had emigrated less than fifteen years before. “How long you two staying? It won’t take a moment to put fresh sheets on your beds.”

  She maintained the fiction that they slept in separate rooms, joined by a shared bath.

  “We’re here through the holiday,” Andre said. “Headed back July fifth.”

  “You should stay all summer.” Her tone was decisive. “What else is this great house for? And Mr. Spence rattling around inside. Lord knows there’s enough room. I’ll take that bluefish.”

  She relieved Andre of his shopping bag.

  “Is Dad here?”

  “He’s down at that club on the docks.”

  As though it were a sailor’s bar, Elliot thought, and his father drinking all afternoon. He kissed Roseline on her other cheek. “We’ll bring in our bags. Is there any iced tea?”

  “Never mind that. I’ll get out the gin,” she told him.

  He found Andre already opening the French doors from the living room to the backyard, and followed him. MacTavish ambled between their legs, his white muzzle probing for scent, making for the edge of the lawn. There was nothing between the house and the cliff but a wonky pair of plastic Adirondack chairs from Stop & Shop, grass tufting around their legs. An ashtray sat forgotten between them—a ceramic clamshell Elliot had made as a kid during summer camp, forty years ago. He hunkered down over it, frowning, and stirred the butts with a finger. They were several days old and soggy with rain. His father hadn’t smoked in decades. So who—?

  He glanced around. The blown remains of his dead mother’s peonies nodded in ungainly clumps beside withered heads of iris. The roses were in flower; so were the ancient and glorious hydrangeas that ringed the far end of the lawn. There was an arched trellis there, matted with climbers. Its waist-high gate faced the harbor.

  It was this single point in the whole extraordinary property that gave Step Above its real cachet, its singular advantage, and its immense value.

  It overlooked Steps Beach.

  This was just a loosely defined stretch of sand between Jetties Beach to the east and Dionis to the west. The harbor waves here were gentle and there was no undertow to speak of. It was a beach for building sand castles and eating box lunches brought from Something Natural on Cliff Road. And although it was technically public, few tourists found their way to Steps Beach in the high season. There was no parking lot, no changing rooms, showers or toilet facilities, no snack bar with congealing puddles of ketchup and stained paper napkins. No seagulls tearing soggy French fries from trash bins. Just a trail through the hedges from Lincoln Ave. to a lengthy pitch of wooden stairs, and the scent of wild roses on the wind.

  Step Above, like all the privileged properties overlooking Steps Beach, had its own private set of stairs plunging down the steep cliff.

  Andre joined Elliot at the trellis gate. His dark head brushed the dangling petals and released a flood of scent that washed over them both. With it came intense memories of childhood. Elliot closed his eyes and grasped Andre’s hand, restraining him for a moment.

  His mother, clipping these roses, the wind off the ocean teasing her strawberry-blonde hair. His father tackling him around the middle and carrying him, pell-mell, down to the first landing, and then the second and the third—the dizzying descent to the gully covered with moor scrub, the headlong race across the boardwalk to the dunes with their sharp grasses and prickly scrawl of salt-spray roses, flowering in vivid shades of pink against the dark green leaves.

  The deep blue of the Sound beyond.

  A few smooth granite pebbles and slipper shells under his bare feet. The shock of the ocean, curling his toes.

  Andre’s fingers squeezed his. “Let’s go down. It’s always magic, the first time each summer.”

  He opened the gate. MacTavish let out a bark and plummeted from step to step. Elliot followed him. For the first time in a long while he felt that he was home.

  A half-hour and a brisk walk later, Andre was busy in Roseline’s kitchen, making smoked bluefish pâté. Chopped shallots, sour cream, a little mayonnaise, some sherry. Elliot grasped their overnight bags and carried them upstairs. MacTavish ran ahead of him.

  His childhood room was sea-blue, and held twin beds he and Andre usually pushed together to form a king. The adjoining bath was narrow, old and tiled. It connected to a room painted pale yellow, a color Elliot hated. When Dad died, he planned to renovate the whole house. The other bedrooms on this floor would be res
tructured so that each had a private bath, but these two made a perfect Jack-and-Jill suite for kids, with beds built into the alcoves under the dormer windows like cabins on a ship.

  He didn’t ask himself whose kids would sleep in them.

  He halted in the bedroom doorway, his sandy brows coming swiftly down over his blue eyes.

  Someone else had already moved in.

  A black sweater lay neatly folded over the back of a chair. A pair of paperbacks sat on the bedside table, along with a pen and a pack of cigarettes. There was another ashtray, too—a glass one, this time, lifted years ago from the Opera House restaurant, which no longer existed.

  Elliot crossed swiftly to the bathroom and glanced inside.

  Toiletries.

  A woman’s, by the look of them.

  For an instant, he wondered if Roseline had been staying over, nights. If his father had been sick—

  Or falling again?

  “Roseline,” he called.

  She appeared in the doorway, folded sheets from the linen closet in her arms. “I’m putting you in the green bedroom, Mr. Elliot,” she said. “Your sister’s stuff is still in here.”

  “My sister’s?”

  He stared at her, aghast.

  Nora had been gone for years. How many? More than seven, at least, because she’d never met Andre. Ten years? Twelve? She hadn’t even come home for Mom’s funeral—

  “Did you say my sister’s here?”

  “She was,” Roseline said. “Showed up at Wine Festival time. But she only stayed a few days. One morning I came, and she was just gone. Your father couldn’t tell me where or when she’d be back. No message. Just a bit of laundry and all her things left behind. Maybe she found a friend?”

  “Sounds like Nora,” Elliot said bitterly. “Did she take all Dad’s cash with her, too?”

  “No.” There was a hint of reproach in Roseline’s voice. “I guess she’ll be back, Mr. Elliot. Why would she leave her computer here, otherwise?”

  It was strange, Elliot thought. Not that Nora had left, but that she’d ever arrived. He turned once in the middle of the room, as though he could summon his sister from under the bed. Then he picked up his suitcases and followed Roseline down the hall.