Free A Beautiful Place to Die by Philip Craig Page A

freezer and then had most of the other half of the open loaf with more beer and some ham and cheese.
    Supper was ready. The wine was in the fridge. I’d make the peach melba at the last minute. It was only one o’clock. What efficiency.
    I got out my Gazette again. The captain of the Bluefin was named Tim Mello. He lived in Vineyard Haven. I called his number. Nobody home. I decided to find the boat.
    Vineyard Haven is where most of the ferries from the mainland come in, much to the annoyance of many business people in Oak Bluffs who wish even more ferries landed there so they could make even more money fromday trippers. Vineyard Haven is not particularly islandish or nautical or even quaint. It looks a lot like any other little New England town, but it’s located on the Vineyard so it’s not really like a mainland town. Out on West Chop there are a lot of big houses, for instance, and the harbor has more schooners in it than any harbor I know of. Vineyard Haven is also the traffic jam capital of Martha’s Vineyard.
    I got through the traffic jam and eventually found the Bluefin lying at a dock not far from the shipyard. I parked beside a little red M.G. sportscar. Beyond the Bluefin rose the masts of the yachts lying inside the breakwater. The biggest masts belonged to the Shenandoah, the lovely old hermaphrodite brig that cruises the south coast of New England in the summer. Someday I plan to play tourist and take a sail on her myself. But not today.
    The Bluefin was sixty-five feet long and equipped with a pulpit, outriggers, and more electronic gear than I imagined existed. She was a beauty, the sort of boat rarely owned by individuals anymore, but by corporations. She had a black hull and teak everything else. Tim Mello, her captain, was a young fellow, which means younger than me. Most cops are, too. So are a lot of other people, a fact that perplexes me. How did it happen? I remember when almost everybody was older than me.
    I asked Mello for permission to board and he waved a hand. He was installing a new loran. Something better than the billion-dollar one that they’d gotten by on before, I supposed.
    Mello laughed. “I didn’t buy it, I just run the boat. What can you do for me?”
    A jester of my own caliber. “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for et cetera,” I said.
    â€œOkay, what can I do for my country, in this case you?”
    I told him that I represented a member of the Martin family and that I wanted to talk about the rescue of Billy Martin.
    â€œI made a full statement to the police. I imagine you can get it. If you’re an insurance agent, you’ll be better off talking with the corporation lawyer.”
    â€œI’m not anything official or unofficial. Billy Martin’s sister asked me to find out anything I can about the accident. I’ve seen the cops, I’ve seen the guys at the boatyard in Edgartown, and I’ve seen the Martins, and now I’m seeing you.”
    â€œOkay,” he said, “fire away. You don’t mind if I keep on working, I hope.”
    I didn’t mind.
    â€œI had a party of two,” he said. “They wanted to go bluefishing in the Wasque rip. They came down about eight and we left. I could see a boat coming out of Edgartown as we got closer to Cape Pogue. I knew he’d have to go outside the shallows off the point, so I hooked out a little. I wasn’t really watching the boat, but the people in my party were. They say she just blew up. I saw the flash from the corner of my eye and turned just as the boom got to us. I saw somebody in the water, thrashing around. I went in as close as I dared and got hold of him with a boathook and pulled him aboard. He was pretty singed, and he was yelling about his friend Jim. I circled as close as I could, but I didn’t see anybody else in the water, so I radioed a mayday to the Coast Guard and to the Edgartown harbormaster.