"I assume that your maid doesn't live in, but shows up several times a week?"
"What? Oh, yes. Walter took over this set of rooms for his private retreat. During the past eight years, he seldom left it except to eat and work. He even slept here; the next room has a bed and bath."
The room was paneled in dark walnut, with beams on the ceiling. A magnificent burled oak desk dominated the center of the room, which was lined with built-in bookcases. Every man's dream of the perfect study. What struck me immediately, though, was the nautical air of the place. Ship models in glass cases topped the bookcases. Prints of clipper ships lined the walls. I noticed one that was in my study as welclass="underline" Montague Dawson's picture of Thermopolae Leaving Foochow. There were charts of Cape Ann, charts of the Cape and the Islands, charts of Boston Harbor. I noticed photographs too. Most of them showed a gray-haired gentleman aboard a boat. Sometimes at the wheel, sometimes hunched over a chart. One showed him in a wetsuit, hair dripping over his forehead, triumphantly holding up a gold coin.
Laura stopped before this last picture.
"That's Walter-that was Walter-as you may have guessed. That picture was taken in nineteen seventy-one when he made his first find."
"What is it, a doubloon?"
She bent forward, squinting at the picture closely.
"That or a piece of eight, or something… anyway, he found a small cache of them off P-town in 'seventy-one, and from that time on thought about almost nothing else. Except Jennifer and the other beach girls."
"I take it, Laura, from the tone of your voice and what you've said, that you and Walter weren't particularly close during the last ten years or so."
"That's putting it mildly, Doctor. I'm being open about it because you'd discover it anyway if you asked enough people."
She ambled over to the leather easy chair with an air of resignation and flopped down into it.
"We weren't enemies you understand. We didn't fight. To fight takes emotion-stress and strain. When the emotion is gone, then there is only a void. A peaceful, blank void. He went his way and I went mine. He went treasure hunting on his boat and I played tennis. He had his friends and I have mine."
She looked up quickly into my eyes during this last remark. I could read between the lines, and let it pass. It was a clear blueprint, a perfect scenario down to the last detail, of what so often happens during a marriage in the late-middle years, especially when there's adequate money-or even more often when there's too much money; a growing apart. No fights, no divorce. No separation or settlement. Just two roughly parallel lives lived out under the same roof, each with its own concerns, hobbies, and lovers.
"I see," I said finally. 'And now that Walter is probably dead, will you keep this house?"
She gave me a shrewd grin.
"If that's your way of asking me the terms of Walter's will, it's a very clever 0ne."
I gave a short laugh-a genuine one. That wasn't my intention; I was merely curious. But clearly Laura Kincaid had been questioned a good deal during the past weeks by reporters and police detectives. She was learning to spot the leading question immediately.
"Let me put it this way, Doctor Adams: Walter left me sitting pretty. He was incredibly successful you know; everything he touched turned to gold. I may keep the house; I may sell it. But whatever happens, life will sweep on as usual for me. This whole thing has left hardly a dent in my life, Doctor, one way or another. I was born rich, married a rich man who got richer, and I will die rich. We had no children. The man I married grew apart from me in recent years, and now appears to be dead. So that just makes it official, I guess, that's all. So here I am, same as always."
She slapped her hands down on her thighs, as if to say: That's that. She was crying silently. The lady who had everything had nothing. I had seen that so often among the rich. Laura Kincaid certainly wasn't alone, although that could hardly have been a comfort to her as she sat in the plush chair blinking away the tears.
"I'm sorry," I said, and patted her shoulder.
"Oh hell!" she cried, jumping up and wiping her eyes.
"I'm not crying because I'm hurt or because I'm sad, I'm crying because it's so goddamn empty and boring."
"I know. Listen, you should get away. Take a trip somewhere. What's your favorite country?"
"Italy."
"Then go."
She sighed, and agreed that maybe I was right.
"Laura, I want to ask you one more question, please. If we for a second assume that your husband's death or disappearance was not accidental, can you tell me if there is anyone who'd want him dead?"
She thought for thirty or forty seconds-longer than I expected her to-before answering that she didn't think so.
As we were leaving the study, I noticed a photograph on the wall near the door. I had walked past it upon entering. It was an aerial view of an island. Next to it was a drawing of a cutaway view of what looked like a mine shaft. I squinted at the drawing. At various places along the shaft (which was vertical) were penciled-in remarks: "100 feet, stone tablet with inscription. 120 feet, oaken platform. 150 feet, rock layer," etc.
"What's this?"
"That is the great treasure at Oak Island, Nova Scotia."
"Oh yes, I've heard of it. Isn't the greatest treasure of all time buried there?"
"Yes, they think so. But so far, they can't get it out. Every year people die trying. Walter was convinced that the Capes held a similar treasure, and he eventually became obsessed with finding it. Why don't you join me for a drink on the porch, and I'll tell you about it."
I declined the drink but accepted the invitation.
We sat in the wide screened porch for twenty more minutes. I gazed out over the vast expanse of green. The interior was festooned with lush hanging plants. Laura Kincaid spoke a little more about her husband's obsession with golden pirate treasure;
"But he never really found it? The big haul?"
"Nope. He never did. But he sure enjoyed himself looking for it."
'And you say the Windhover was equipped with all kinds of electronic gear to help him locate it?"
"Oh God yes. Everything that a yachtsman could buy and install, he did. That boat could find her way in and out of a hurricane probably. That's the reason he selected an old trawler too; he claimed the hull was more seaworthy. And now let me ask you some questions."
"Fine."
"What happened to your hand?"
"A kid hit me with his moped and broke it. One of the reasons I have time on my hands is because of it. Should be OK in a few weeks though."
"Second question: why did you come here? What do you I think happened to my husband?"
"Well. I don't know. For a while I suspected he was still alive. But after this visit I'm pretty convinced that your suspicion is true. A boat that strikes a ledge-especially at speed-goes down like a brick. If that happened, he wouldn't have had time to call for help."
"You mentioned another boat you saw. What was its name?"
' ' Penelope.' '
She sighed a slow, deliberate, and irritable sigh. "I don't know how many draggers there are on Cape Cod or in New England, but there must be quite a few. I'm sure some of them look alike. They all look alike to me. I think it's strange though, that you're so interested."
"A young man, a friend of the family's, was killed near the boat. I guess I'm a bit more than curious."