Billingsgate Shoal by Rick Boyer Page B

grabbed her hands together.
    "I don't feel well. I'm afraid there's nothing
more I can tell you."
    I thanked her and left. I went back out through the
tall gates and over to the car.
    Laura Kincaid certainly matched the background Joe
had given me. Rich, well bred, and frank, she had given me much more
information about Kincaid and the Windhover than I'd had a right to expect. Her explanations laid to rest any
doubts I had about the Kincaid family. If there was anything amiss
with the boat Penelope ,
it had nothing to do with Windhover ;
their similarities were coincidental and considering the basic design
of the coastal bay trawler, not even noteworthy. And also, none of
the men I had glimpsed aboard the green boat looked even remotely
like the man in the study photographs. So much for that.
    I started the engine and checked the side-view
mirror. Then the rear-view. There was a car parked about a hundred
feet behind me with a pair of big feet sticking out from underneath.
I purred down Rudderman's Lane and headed for home. Mary was annoyed
that I was late, and said she was getting a wee bit tired of my going
around to these widows and comforting them. I mixed her a soothing
bourbon and soda and we retired to the porch, where I told her the
story of Oak Island that Laura had told me.
    "What do you think's down there?" asked
Mary.
    "There are various theories. One: the Holy Grail
is buried there. No doubt Billy Graham and Oral Roberts believe this.
Two; the treasure of Charlemagne and the Frankish kings is buried
there. Who knows? All I know is that New England was a pirate
hideout. I never knew that before."
    "Time to eat, Charlie. Flounder fillets with
lobster sauce."
    "Oh honey, you should have."
    But during the meal I stopped eating twice.
    "What's wrong?"
    "This goddamn boat thing is like a boomerang.
Every time I throw it away it comes back at me again. Take today for
instance. Laura Kincaid's explanation for everything made so much
sense. I was convinced that following the Kincaid boat was senseless.
But now two things are bugging me. They're not big things mind you,
but they're enough to keep the old curved stick winging back in my
direction—"
    "Well what `things?"
    "One: how many people on Old Stone Mill Road
have you ever seen working under their cars on the street?"
    She thought a minute.
    "I've never seen anyone working on their cars
here."
    "Right. And there are two good reasons why. One:
people who live on our road are rich enough to hire mechanics to work
on their cars. Two: if by chance some car buff in this neighborhood
did want to fiddle with his engine, where would he do it?"
    "In his garage or the driveway."
    "Exactly. And if this road is well-to-do,
Rudderman's Lane is two or three times that. Yet today I saw a guy
working on his car in the street there. Doesn't make sense. Like so
many events and things of the past week, it just doesn't fit."
    "What's the other thing?"
    "Laura Kincaid's maid."
    "Oh it's Laura now is it? My, my, Charlie, you
do get acquainted with the women fast don't you?"
    "C'mon. Anyway, the maid opened the door while
we were in the back yard. That's a little strange I guess. But then
Laura said she was retrieving a coat. A coat? It's late summer. Why
would a maid leave an overcoat, much less want one, now?"
    "Who knows? Eat your fish."
    So I returned to the meal and had thrown away the
damn worry stick again when the phone rang. It was Joe:
    "You know that name you asked me to check on?
Wallace Kinchloe?"
    "Yeah."
    "Uh, born in Danbury, Connecticut. . . lived in
Cohasset?"
    "Right. Ah, so you found him. Does he own a
boat?"
    "Uh, couldn't find that out. . ."
    "Oh. Well where can I reach him then?"
    "Can't"
    "Well why not?"
    "Because he's dead. He died in Boise, Idaho, a
year ago."
    "Oh," I said, and watched the damn stick
turn and come back, flickering bigger and bigger.
 

    CHAPTER SEVEN
    NEXT DAY I went to visit the Wheel-Lock Corporation
in Melrose. It was unseasonably cool so I