Free Vineyard Enigma by Philip R. Craig Page B

Connie Duarte. And the second one will be Rose Abrams.”
    “Cherchez la femme. Yes.”
    “Two male chauvinists!” Zee feigned anger then laughed as Mahsimba looked at her first with surprise, then with a smile. She touched his arm. “I’m joking!”
    “In any event,” he said, “while I wait for whatever information the police may discover, tomorrow I plan to continue my visits to the island’s galleries.”
    “And I’ll try to talk with Gerald Jenkins and Georgie Hall,” I said.
    Later, after we said our good-nights, I went into the house, but Zee stood in the yard and watched John’s Jeep disappear up the driveway. When she came inside, her dark eyes seemed full of dreams.

11
    I waited until a reasonable hour the next morning, then phoned Gerald Jenkins. When he answered, I said, “My name is Jackson. I got your name from Barbara Butters. I’m working for a man who has an interest in two particular examples of African art. I’m hoping that you can give me some information about them.”
    He sounded annoyed. “I’m not in the consulting business, Mr. Jackson.”
    “I’m not a buyer or a seller. In fact, I know almost nothing about African art or any other kind. That’s why I’d like to talk with you. I won’t take up much of your time.”
    “What are these pieces? Do you have them with you?”
    “They’re carvings. I don’t have them with me, but I can show you a photograph.”
    “Photos don’t always show much.”
    “I’ll be glad to hear anything you have to say when you see them. I think they might interest you. They’re old pieces.”
    I listened to some silence, then he said, “All right, you’ve tempted me. Can you be here in an hour?”
    “Yes. Thanks.”
    I had time to do a bit of work in the yard before heading up-island. While I extracted some weeds from the raised vegetable gardens, I thought about things said and unsaid of late. I felt almost removed from my own body, as though I were watching myself from a short distance away. I knew what I was feeling and thinking, but it was as though I were only an observer of those experiences.
    And as I observed myself from outside, it occurred to me that Zee might also be feeling that way because she had killed a man. She knew that she had done the necessary thing, the right thing, but knowing and feeling are not the same. And now, perhaps, Zee was outside of herself, watching her life but not really being a part of it, as though it were a play and she were an actress.
    When I remembered to look at my watch, I realized that I had left myself no traveling time to spare. I drove to Chilmark, where, leading off Middle Road, one of the island’s most beautiful lanes, I came to Gerald Jenkins’s driveway.
    His name was on his mailbox, and his driveway was a narrow one, winding up toward Prospect Hill until it opened into a small meadow containing a house that, like that of Al and Barbara Butters, once might have been considered large, but was now modest compared with the places being built by the new money that was drowning the island.
    There were outbuildings to one side and a looping driveway in front. The house itself had a fine view of Menemsha Pond and points west, north, and south. No Man’s Land and the Elizabeth Islands were visible in the hazy distance.
    I parked and knocked on the front door. The man who opened it wore a white summer shirt and slacks. He appeared to be about sixty years old, although it’s hard for me to guess how old people are these days. Some twelve-year-old girls look as old as their mothers, and some of their mothers could be sixteen. I knew I could no longer trust my judgment about age when cops and doctors began to resemble high school students.
    “I’m J. W. Jackson,” I said.
    “Come in.”
    He held the door and I walked into what appeared to be a private museum. African art was displayed everywhere, in the form of stone, wood, metal, textiles. Even I could see that it was very fine.
    Jenkins noted