"Sounds like a front to finance his private yacht, the Windhover ."
"Maybe. Certainly he used the foundation and its tax-free money to finance his trips. And certainly again, we can assumes that each and every time he stepped aboard the converted trawler it wasn't all for business. But I did hear from more than one source that he contributed heavily to many of the local museums, most especially the Peabody Museum in Salem and the whaling museum in New Bedford."
"What were these marine relics?"
"You know-parts of old sailing ships, pottery shards, old whiskey bottles, coins, cutlasses, cannons-"
"And he gave it all to the museums?"
"No way of telling that, is there? I wouldn't be surprised if he kept a few of the better pieces for his own private collection."
"Jack did a little research on the Wheel-Lock Corporation. They make some kind of rotary lock that is partly mechanical and partly electronic. These are very top-quality, high-ticket items and are mostly used to guard important things like banks, annories, research facilities, and so on. Kincaid patented the basic mechanism of the first lock aback in 'fifty-seven."
Joe sipped his coffee, listening. Then he added:
"Kincaid's a New England boy, or was MIT grad, born in Woburn sixty-two years ago. Hitch in the navy during the war. Married Laura Armstrong in the early forties. No children. Good credit rating-as you might expect-no dirt. Clean. The wife is from a rich family in England, though she was raised here. The Armstrongs immigrated here when she was a kid. Apparently they owned some kind of tile or ceramic factory over there and her mother sold it out after the father died. She's also clean as a whistle. I tell you, Doc, if it's dirt you're after concerning the Kincaids, there doesn't seem to be much of it. If there is-or was-any bad business with them it's an affair of the heart not of the wallet."
I sat and thought a bit.
"Did you get the number?"
"Uh huh, but only because I'm a cop. I don't want you climbing all over her and-"
"No. Don't worry. I'm just wondering how best to approach this thing-"
"I'll give you the number if you promise me you'll explain clearly and quickly to her what's on your mind, and not keep bugging her if she declines to meet you."
"Done. Thanks. Oh, and there's another name for you to check out."
"Mrs. Kincaid?"
"Who is this? How did you get my number?"
I explained the situation and told her I thought there might be a faint possibility that her husband was not dead. There was a stony silence at the other end.
"Mrs. Kincaid?"
"I heard you. Now what is this? My. husband. My late husband, has been missing now for almost two months. It's been hard enough as it is without people claiming they can find him."
"Yes I know. I'm sorry. It's just that I think there's a remote possibility that your husband's boat, the Windhover is still around in a different guise."
Long silence.
"Mrs. Kincaid? Mrs. Ki-"
"What did you say your name was?"
"I am Doctor Charles Adams."
"And you're a doctor?"
"Yes."
"And how did you happen-look, maybe you could come out-just for a few minutes."
I received instructions from her on how to reach the place and departed.
It took me almost an hour to find it. It was on a semiprivate road called Rudderman's Lane and was surrounded by a high whitewashed wall. The house and grounds had the aura of formal French elegance: gravel drive with large turnaround that lead to the double garage attached to the house, which had high, steeply sloping slate roofs over tall fan windows. The walls were cut stone with quions and timbers where applicable. Norman French-half a million dollars, perhaps more. Old Man Kincaid had done all right with his lock company, that was for sure.
I got out and walked across the gravel. My footsteps seemed to intrude on the silence as if this were more noise than the place had had in years… maybe decades. You can count on a direct correlation between the wealth of a neighborhood and the degree of silence it has. Silence and privacy. If the big wrought iron gates were shut and padlocked, nobody on the outside would ever hope to have the faintest idea of what went on inside number 11 Rudderman's Lane.
I pushed the button at the front door-I had to hunt for it amongst all the ivy-and heard a distant peal of chimes with the same timbre and resonance as the ones at Westminster Abbey. Nothing for a while, then I heard the electronic pop-pop of an intercom, and noticed the small speaker cleverly hiding in the leaves.
"Who is it p1ease?" Pop!
The voice, a woman's, sounded as if it were coming from inside an oil drum.
"It's Dr. Adams, here to speak with Mrs. Kincaid," I said.
Pop! -"I'm around in back on the terrace; come on around through the yard." Pop!
I trudged around, walking on a creeping bent lawn, no doubt fastidiously kept up by a dozen or so Latin immigrants. I passed rose gardens, bronze statuettes, a fountain, a small Haiku garden with an enchanting teahouse. Besides money, the Kincaids had taste. The only thing that marred an otherwise flawless lawn was the ugly scar of dirt and newly sprouted grass at the side of the house where a septic tank had been repaired.
"Dr. Adams?"
I saw an attractive woman, late forties I would guess, rise off at redwood lounger and stroll toward me over the flagstones. The terrace was surrounded by a tightly trimmed hedge, and I entered through a trellis-topped gap in it to shake her hand. She was silver-haired, dressed in slacks and cotton-canvas blouse, with a nautical type rope belt and navy blue Topsiders. Rich casual. She'd been doing some gardening, she told me, and I could see the trowels and flats laid out on the side of the terrace.
"You have a lovely house here, Mrs. Kincaid. I see you have the same problem here we do in Concord. A new leaching field?"
She looked over in the direction of the recent excavation.
"No. Here in Manchester we have sewerage systems. Walter-my husband-had that big oil tank put in early in the summer. It's huge. I think it holds 5000 gallons or something. He always knew how to get the most for his money. Also, you may call me Laura, Doctor. You seem to be quite a gentleman compared to the police and reporters I've been shunning these past few weeks. I'm going in to get some iced tea. Do you want some?"
She came back with the tea and we sat down. She was a good looking woman, fit and trim with a pretty tan face that was kept moisturized and tight by beauty treatments and preparations available to women with money. Then, as she turned her head away from me to set her drink down, I saw the tiny pale pink dot under her jaw. I saw it only because she tilted her head up and around, and because her deep tan made the minute scar all the more visible. Mostly, I saw it because I make my living with jaws and faces, and what's inside them. Face lift. Jaw tuck. Nice job. Probably eight to ten grand worth of a master surgeon's time.
She turned to me and ran her palms down her thighs, stretching out her arms idly. Underneath her cordiality was a regal coolness, an air of impatience and condescension that I found annoying. However, I tried to see the situation from her perspective, and immediately I understood.
"Now Doctor, you say that you may be of some help in locating my husband… what exactly do you mean by that? I mean, it's pretty well assumed that Walter is dead."
"First of all, Mrs. Kincaid-uh, Laura-you should understand that my thoughts are pure conjecture. This could very well be a fool's errand; you can discount all of what I'm going to say. The only reason I'm curious is because of the death of a young man, which I feel partially responsible for."