Page 32

31

Briar

1942

I had a great time following Major Gilbert around Vineyard Haven, but he was a challenge to surveil, since he was a fast walker. For an upper-crusty Brit, he had pretty plebeian tastes and, true to the cultural stereotype, started the excursion with fried fish and chips. It took him forever to eat it, down by the beach, and I almost left, until he headed back up to Main Street. He bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked one. I jotted in my notebook.

Next, the major entered L. E. Briggs’s jewelry and furniture store. It wasn’t the most expensive shop on the island, but it wasn’t cheap, either, and he spent some time in there asking the girl behind the jewelry counter to take out a million different things and then put them back. I hurried in there after he left and asked the girl if he bought anything.

“He did,” she said. Lucky for me, she was unfamiliar with the concept of customer privacy. “He bought a necklace. The most expensive one we have. A fourteen-karat-gold pavé diamond heart, edged in seed pearls. He barely looked at the price,” she said disapprovingly.

I didn’t have time to discuss that the whole point of retail was to attract customers for whom price was no object, but I knew I couldn’t let the trail grow cold. I went next door to the drugstore and used one of Mr. Schmidt’s nickels to buy a bag of the best candy in the world, Boston Baked Beans, and set out to find Major Gil.

I found the major in line at the post office, at Church Street and Main, and I watched him while pretending to busy myself at the desk with the envelopes and pens. When his turn came, the postmaster behind the window handed him a small white envelope and he walked out.

The woman in line behind the major moved up to the window and inquired about him.

“It was from someone named Greta,” the postmaster told her. “Swiss postmark. Don’t know why it didn’t come through military mail. I’m not allowed to open anything, though. The censors do all that.”

“I hear he was snooping around the practice range over at Katama,” the woman said.

The postman shrugged. “Never know these days.”

I followed the major past the steamship dock, as he walked toward a little French restaurant named Cheri’s. A blond woman came out to meet him, and they started arguing before he got within ten feet of her. I couldn’t hear the details, but she was mad and stomped off a couple of times, then came back. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, like he was waiting for a bus. I hoped she’d slap Major Gilbert or something more interesting, but that didn’t happen, and they finally went their separate ways.

All at once Jerry Whitcomb, my colleague from the model shop, came up from behind, scaring me so bad I almost choked on my candy.

“Hey, Briar.” He dug into my bag and pulled out a bean. “Saw you following Major Gilbert earlier.”

“On the advice of counsel, I invoke my fifth-amendment privilege against self-incrimination.”

He popped the bean in his mouth and crunched. “Ha ha. Hey, I wanted to fill you in on something I heard. On the q.t., of course.”

Ordinarily I wouldn’t care a whit about harmless Jerry Whitcomb, but something in his tone made me think he might actually have important information.

“I’m training for a position in the FBI office, just grunt-work stuff, but I overheard Captain McManus talking with his assistant about Sandra Granger’s death. Said they searched everywhere for some receipts book and it’s missing.” He aimed a pointed look at me.

I stuffed the candy bag into my pocket. “So?”

“He mentioned your name in connection with it. Said you were already on the scene when he arrived. With your sister.”

Fear shot through me. Cadence was a suspect, too?

If McManus was on the hunt for a splashy arrest to make, one that would send him to the big time, I didn’t want it to be me.

“Also, Mr. Reed came into the office and told McManus that three pages of a classified document are missing from the model shop, too.”

“No kidding,” I said. At least I had burned them.

“But remember I saw you in the classified room? You said you were looking for your Japanese subs. In the M drawer. That’s the drawer with the missing pages.”

I wiped my palms down my pant legs. Since when did Jerry Whitcomb become some sort of savant?

“Did you tell anyone?” I asked.

“No. Not yet. But that’s withholding evidence.”

“Not really. Not if they didn’t ask. Volunteering information can actually hurt a case.”

Jerry mulled that over. “Well, just so you know, in the FBI training manual it says they have a new way to trace the type of paper classified docs are printed on. From the fibers or something. Have a whole kit of chemicals they apply around a crime scene.”

All of a sudden, my chest went tight. If McManus searched our house, could he tell from ashes in the fireplace that I’d taken those pages?

“Gotta go,” I said.

“One more thing. McManus filed for a couple of search warrants yesterday in Edgartown—one of them for your grandmother’s property and one for the house next door.”

I walked away from him, my legs jelly beneath me. “Fine by me.”

“Thought you should know,” he called after me. “Just between us, right?”

“Right, Jerry. Thanks for being a pal.” And I headed home to Copper Pond Farm to get rid of every trace.