The Weekend Visitor Read online

  "Come on inside and I'll make some fresh coffee." I even offered her a pastry. She seemed to turn slightly pale and refused. I supposed her nerves still weren't what they should be. But mine were fine and the cruller disappeared before I even poured the coffee. When we were settled at the kitchen table I asked, "Well, what can I do for you?"

  "I think I remember a couple of things. But they sound sort of crazy. I think I must have dreamed them, but Mary said I must. .. tell you." She trailed off apologetically.

  "Mary's right. What do you remember?"

  "Well, the stairs. I'm sure now they were indoors, and they had green carpeting and were very narrow. And dimly lit."

  "Dimly lit? Stairs in a hotel or any public place are usually brightly lit."

  "These weren't. They had little fixtures spaced along the wall, with dim little bulbs. And then upstairs, I... I was on the bed and he was . .. doing it. I was staring across his shoulder. He was hurting me, but I couldn't tell him to stop, couldn't scream. The doctor told me later some drugs affect you like that. Anyway, I think I saw some cups on a shelf. . . not like this." She picked up her coffee cup. "Cups like when you win a game, you know, with two handles."

  "Okay." I nodded. "I'm with you. It's beginning to sound as if you were in a home, not a motel or B&B or some kind of warehouse."

  "That's what Mary said. Whatever it was, it was big. I just feel like it was big."

  "All right, we'll assume it was big." I smiled and finished the last of the croissant. Working gave me an appetite. "Anything else?"

  She gave an embarrassed little laugh. "I hate to even say this, it sounds so silly. But when we came out of the building, we walked across some grass to the car. My legs were beginning to function a little, with him helping. Off on the edge of the grass, way over, I saw a telescope."

  "A telescope?" I began to try to think of something a half-drugged, scared girl might mistake for a telescope. Everything I thought of made even less sense. A car muffler? A log? A length of pipe? A machine gun .. . oh, hell, she had to have dreamed it.

  "Yeah, well, we'll have to think about that one. But, tell me, Maureen, are you absolutely certain you didn't know this guy? Even slightly?"

  "Oh, no! Oh, I couldn't have, Alex! Now, sure I would remember him, wouldn't I?" She looked like tears were moving in.

  "Yeah, I guess so. Probably. Forget I asked." I stood and brought the coffee carafe back to the table.

  Under control now, Maureen stood, too, and put her hand on my arm. "No, no more coffee, thank you, Alex. I'm taking up your morning and I'm sure you're busy. Thank you for listening to my natter." Her face seemed suddenly close to mine.

  "It's my pleasure and my job," I replied gallantly, but she was right. I was anxious to get moving. I did have a lot to do, and I was strangely jumpy. "We'll get this guy, don't you worry, so you can relax and stop looking over your shoulder."

  "That would be wonderful," she sighed. She managed a half-smile and left.

  I put her cup and saucer in the sink and refilled my cup, picking up the phone with the other hand. I called Nacho at the police station. Nacho was Mary O'Malley, who had been dubbed Nacho when we were in high school, because she was always eating nuts, chips, popcorn, nachos, candy bars. She still weighed about 110, had beautiful teeth and smooth skin. But she was also pleasant and was hard to hate. She had a love affair going with computers, and they came up with anything she asked, unlike the little smoking bombs they so frequently threw into the center of my screen.

  I asked her to find me a dark Mercedes convertible with Ptown connections, and she agreed.

  "And I can tell you off the cuff, Alex, there are two in town.

  One is dark gray and belongs to the couple who own the Chambered Nautilus B&B. The other is actually an ancient four-door black model that I think must have originally belonged to Hitler. Old Don Clarke owns it and occasionally uses it to troll for young men."

  We both laughed. Skinny, red-necked Clarke with his slicked-back, thinning hair had been trolling since we were kids. Rumor had it he baited the hook with cash. "I know about Dapper Don. Anything interesting about the B&B guy?"

  "Not much. His wife goes to my hairdresser. She's gorgeous. Your heart would go pitty-pat."

  "Alas, my heart is not free to go pitty-pat. I'll drop in later and see what your trolling brings in."

  I put my finger on the disconnect button for a minute, while I ran my eye down a list of numbers taped to the wall above the phone. I found the number for the clinic and dialed. I asked which doctor had been on emergency room duty the night of Sunday, June fourth. After several minutes of jolly music, I was told it was Dr. Gloetzner. No, I could not speak with him. He would not be in until Monday morning. Could someone else help me? I said no thanks and hung up.

  Well, I wasn't making much progress with interviews. Maybe I'd do better with the bartender at the Bitter End. I changed into some decent slacks and shoes, and a fresh shirt and then had to make the big decision. Walk, and face the sidewalk traffic. Drive, and face the street traffic. I made a fast check of the liquor cabinet and decided on the car.

  Fortunately, the bartender on duty at the Bitter End had been on duty Sunday night. Unfortunately, he simply refused to believe spiking a drink could have happened there. "No way. Couldn't be. We don't run that kind of place. We don't have that kind of crowd. Nobody did that while /was behind this bar!"

  "Look," I said, "Nobody is trying to blame you or say the place is sleazy. Who ever knows when some psycho walks in? They don't always have little horns and cloven hooves."

  His jaw set in a stubborn line and his lower lip jutted out. "Nope. We don't cater to psychos."

  I wondered who did. "Well, barkeep, it did happen. You know Maureen Delaney?" I felt I had no choice but to identify her.

  "It was her? Now, see, that just proves my point. She's that pretty, redheaded Irish girl, right? She's a nice girl. I mean, she's friendly enough, but she don't come on strong to the guys. She's not loud, doesn't show off. Anybody come on too strong to her, she'd tell him off in a hurry."

  I had a distinct feeling he spoke from experience, but all I said was, "He wouldn't necessarily get fresh. He might just drop some powder or liquid in her drink."

  "She wasn't even with a guy that night. Hasn't been for a month or so."

  "She used to come in with a man?" I looked up sharply.

  "Yeah, once or twice. Nice-looking guy, dark curly hair. Wore expensive clothes, kinda highbrow for in here, you know? Haven't seen him for quite awhile, though."

  "Did he look like a pirate?"

  The bartender stared at me and then laughed. "You crazy? There aren't pirates nowadays. Although . . ." he added thoughtfully, "He mighta been a movie pirate. Like Johnny Depp or something."

  "Have you any idea who he is?"

  "Nah. Rich college kid would be my bet."

  We chatted awhile longer, but I learned nothing else. Finally, I gave him my card. "If you think of anything, or if you see anything unusual, call me or the cops. They know about this. Keep a close eye on your bar. And you might warn the other bartenders. Oh," I added on my way out, "We're trying to keep quiet about who it was, save her some embarrassment if we can."

  "Sure. I'll tell the other guys. But I won't use her name around no one."

  I hoped he meant it. Looking at my watch, I realized I still had plenty of time before I needed to get home and give Cindy a hand for the evening's festivities. I decided to walk over and see if Nacho had brought in a worthwhile catch.

  When I walked in, she saw me and waved me into her office. Foregoing the amenities, she got right to business. "Ptown's getting more affluent," she informed me. "We have another Mercedes registered in town. Black with a white top, belonging to one Barbara Thomasen. Age fifty-seven. The address is a condo up near you. No second driver listed on her insurance." Nacho had gone full out to get thorough information.

  I nodded. "I know her . . . slightly. Her lover died last year in some weird ac
cident. She's bursar for a small college down in Connecticut. I doubt she's taken to dressing in drag and raping young women."

  "She could have a son ... or a nephew who uses the car." She reached in her desk drawer and pulled out a tin of peanuts and pointed it toward me. I shook my head no.

  "I'll keep her in mind. Anything else?" I waited while she washed some nuts down with a soda.

  "Yeah. I took a chance and ran the car we want as being from within the Boston city limits, before I went statewide and then maybe into Rhode Island and probably Kansas and Minnesota." She grinned and took another swig of soda.

  "You're gonna love this one, Alex. Dark blue with white top. Registered to that Beacon Hill scion of the aristocracy . . . one John Lanham Sanhope."

  I had to stop and think a minute. The Sanhopes. Of course! They had an old sprawling house, complete with guest cottage and garages that used to be a stable ... up on the crest of the hill near the end of Bradford Street overlooking the marsh and half of the Atlantic Ocean. They also had some sort of mansion in Boston and split their time between here and there. They had money. Big money, really big money. I tapped my finger on Nacho's desk.

  "Didn't their name used to be Santos?" I asked.

  "Um hmmm." Her mouth was full again. "Years back, when papa Santos still worked on a fishing boat. Before they got rich and decided not to be Portuguese anymore."

  "Right. I remember now. They're in banking or something now. But isn't our Pete Santos kin to them?" I stood and looked into the main room, hoping to spot Officer Peter Santos.

  "He is, but he's not here. He left a few minutes ago to go up to the Wharf Rat Bar and get some lunch. Then he's going to his mother's to mow the lawn." She stood too, now, and clicked off her computer.

  The Rat. I had to get up there, to my "other office," to catch Pete and maybe get myself some lunch. "Thanks, Nacho, thanks a million!" I was headed for the door.

  "You owe me a bag of potato chips."

  "You'll get 'em, Nacho, you'll get 'em!" I was gone.

  Chapter 8

  I made no friends on the way to the Rat. I must have said excuse me a dozen times as I squeezed, shouldered, dodged and detoured my way up Commercial Street. And it was no better when I got there. People were out in the alley waiting for tables and my, "Sorry, pardon me, meeting a friend inside," as I pushed past them earned me only dirty looks and grunts.

  Inside, I finally spotted Pete Santos, back near the kitchen door, nursing a beer and turning hopefully toward the kitchen every few seconds. I was about to take his mind off food.

  "Hiya, Pete, may I join you?"

  "Sure, Alex. Sit down before somebody knocks you down. It's crazy in here."

  I sat. God help the native during tourist season. I snagged a waiter by the simple expedient of sticking out my arm and blocking his entrance to the kitchen. Glancing at Pete's beer, I ordered, "One Bass, one Bud. A Caesar salad with seared scallops and some of Billy's little corn muffins. Put it on his check," I pointed to Pete, "And give the check to me later. Thanks for fitting us in." Both Pete and the waiter looked a bit startled, but I smiled sweetly and let my arm fall back into my lap, and the waiter continued his way to the kitchen, scribbling on a pad.

  Pete took a swig of his beer. "Thanks for the treat. You win the lottery or something?"

  "I'll be billing a client," I said grandly.

  "Ah, then I'll have dessert."

  "Have two." I leaned across the table, so I could speak without shouting. "I'm here to pick your brain. You're kin to the Sanhopes, aren't you?"

  "All the way back to when they were not Sanhopes. Old Peter Sanhope, ne Santos, was my grandfather Augie's brother. They both worked on their father's fishing boat."

  "Tell me the story, then to now. How did he get to be a Sanhope?" Our beer arrived and I took a grateful sip.

  "A tale of tragedy and treachery, love, greed, power . . . and piles of money."

  "My God, Pete, it sounds like a real swashbuckler! Give."

  "It was right after WWII. Old Pete and Augie and the rest of the crew were at sea on the boat when she developed some engine problems. They got a tow into Boston to a shipyard, but parts were still hard to get, so everyone but Augie and Pete went home. The two young guys stayed with the boat as sort of caretaker watchmen, and would bring her home when she got fixed."

  He looked at me to make sure I was still with him. I nodded. He continued. "Well, one afternoon Peter was sitting taking the sun in some park, and here along came Miss Grace Lanham, out walking her little Boston terrier. I guess Grace was a real beauty. You can still see it in her now, and she's damn near eighty! And she was rich. Her father owned some stock brokerage firm in Boston. Grace and Peter looked at each other and that was all it took." He laughed. "If you believe old Pete, he had her then and there under a bush by the park bench."

  I raised my eyebrows. "How did the terrier feel about it?"

  Pete answered just as solemnly. "According to Uncle Peter, the dog kept score. Anyway, it was hot and heavy till the boat got fixed. I don't know if that would have been an end to it, but about the time Peter got back to Ptown, Grace discovered she was, as they said, in the family way."

  "Uh-oh."

  "Yeah, two families, miles apart in every way. And spoiled little Grace yelling, no abortion, no adoption . .. marriage! She wanted that man."

  We held our conversation in abeyance while the waiter graciously slammed Pete's fish and chips platter, and my corn muffins and salad plates onto the table and hurried back to the kitchen.

  I took a fast bite and got back to the subject. "So they married?" I asked through a full mouth.

  "Yep. They took Portuguese Peter and cleaned him up and changed his name to Sanhope, which sounded much more like somebody Amazing Grace would marry, and got them to church. Then somehow they got him into the university for four years."

  "Amazing Grace?" I smiled.

  "Everybody calls her that—with good reason, but don't let her hear you. Anyway, all was well. They were happy, and Peter actually liked college and was doing very well. The baby came along— a little girl—and then the troubles started. She only lived a month or so. I think they called it crib death, right?"

  "Yes. Sudden infant death syndrome or SIDS, I think they say now. How sad."

  "Well, they got through it. And Grace got pregnant again, with Robert, and then with William. They were both healthy kids, thank goodness. Peter graduated and they put him in some gofer job at the brokerage. But come to find out he loved the business and was a genius at it. Before you know it, he's got them with branches in a lot of big cities all over the country, and into investment banking as well. Next thing you know, it's Lanham and Sanhope, Inc., and when old man Lanham died, Peter became CEO and Amazin' Grace got herself elected Chairman of the Board. The all-American success story." He leaned back and drank some beer thirstily, as I finished the last bite of Billy's fluffy, wonderful corn-bread.

  "So that's it?" I asked. "They lived happily every after?" I lit a cigarette, and Pete looked wistful. I was sorry, but not sorry enough to put it out. I did, however, order us two more beers.

  "Not so happily, no," Pete said rather sadly. "There was talk that old Peter couldn't always keep his pants zipped. And then there was the big house he bought and added onto down here, the one Grace has now. Peter may have become a lah-di-dah Sanhope, but he was still part Santos. He loved Ptown and never forgot his roots. That didn't especially suit Grace. It was a thorn in her high society side. I think she was torn. She loved the water and scenery. She hated calling fishing folk her in-laws. She's never been comfortable around us... although all us kids get along okay whenever we do get together."

  The beers came, and I poured some into my glass as I asked, "That's not often?"

  "No, not often." He sounded regretful. "You see, there was always a bunch of Santos kids running around here in Ptown. But the Sanhopes only had William and Robert, and they went to the fancy schools. So that meant mostly just summer
s and holidays down here. Then Robert grew up just in time for Vietnam, and that was two Sanhopes down."

  "He was killed in action?" I was appalled. All the money in the world couldn't make up for the death of two children! I leaned back and blew smoke toward the already smoke-yellowed ceiling.

  Pete shrugged. "That's the general story. Actually he was doing something for the CIA in Laos. He disappeared. Months later his body arrived at the U.S. Embassy in Saigon, neatly chopped up, packed in a barrel of salt."

  "Jesus Christ!" I exploded, feeling my lunch churn in my stomach. "Did Grace know that? I'm surprised she didn't go out of her mind!"

  "Amazing Grace earned her nickname. She stayed as tall and proud as ever. It was Old Peter who kind of fell apart. You know, lots of booze, more women, less time at home. But fortunately their other son, William, was all you could have asked for. He took over the business and did well at it. He managed to stay alive a reasonable amount of time and had three children who are all still healthy. Then Uncle Willie had a heart attack about twelve years ago."

  This all sounded like it ought to be a TV miniseries to me. "So Grace has outlived all three of her children?"

  Pete nodded. "And her husband. Old Peter was flying his twin-engine plane up to Sydney, Nova Scotia, back in 1982. He had two pals with him for a so-called fishing trip . . . but there were also three young women on board. It was foggy, and he put them into the side of a mountain. That was really tough on Grace."

  "Tough?" I snorted. "Understatement of the year! Poor woman. She's lost all her kids, and her husband augers in a plane full of the party set. So who's left for her to talk to? The upstairs maid?"

  Pete pushed his empty plate aside and snagged one of my cigarettes. Did I supply the entire Provincetown Police Department? "A little better than that. There's three grandchildren ... William's kids. Francesca is the oldest, married with two daughters, down in Washington, D.C. There's Richard, he and Lillian have no kids so far. He runs the business now . . . doing great, I hear. And there's the oops kid . . . about twelve or fourteen years younger than the other two, Jack, graduating Harvard tomorrow, in fact."