She stared at me, tight lipped, for several seconds. Then she lowered her head and grabbed her hands together.
"I don't feel well. I'm afraid there's nothing more I can tell you."
I thanked her and left. I went back out through the tall gates and over to the car.
Laura Kincaid certainly matched the background Joe had given me. Rich, well bred, and frank, she had given me much more information about Kincaid and the Windhover than I'd had a right to expect. Her explanations laid to rest any doubts I had about the Kincaid family. If there was anything amiss with the boat Penelope, it had nothing to do with Windhover; their similarities were coincidental and considering the basic design of the coastal bay trawler, not even noteworthy. And also, none of the men I had glimpsed aboard the green boat looked even remotely like the man in the study photographs. So much for that.
I started the engine and checked the side-view mirror. Then the rear-view. There was a car parked about a hundred feet behind me with a pair of big feet sticking out from underneath. I purred down Rudderman's Lane and headed for home. Mary was annoyed that I was late, and said she was getting a wee bit tired of my going around to these widows and comforting them. I mixed her a soothing bourbon and soda and we retired to the porch, where I told her the story of Oak Island that Laura had told me.
"What do you think's down there?" asked Mary.
"There are various theories. One: the Holy Grail is buried there. No doubt Billy Graham and Oral Roberts believe this. Two; the treasure of Charlemagne and the Frankish kings is buried there. Who knows? All I know is that New England was a pirate hideout. I never knew that before."
"Time to eat, Charlie. Flounder fillets with lobster sauce."
"Oh honey, you should have."
But during the meal I stopped eating twice.
"What's wrong?"
"This goddamn boat thing is like a boomerang. Every time I throw it away it comes back at me again. Take today for instance. Laura Kincaid's explanation for everything made so much sense. I was convinced that following the Kincaid boat was senseless. But now two things are bugging me. They're not big things mind you, but they're enough to keep the old curved stick winging back in my direction-"
"Well what `things?"
"One: how many people on Old Stone Mill Road have you ever seen working under their cars on the street?"
She thought a minute.
"I've never seen anyone working on their cars here."
"Right. And there are two good reasons why. One: people who live on our road are rich enough to hire mechanics to work on their cars. Two: if by chance some car buff in this neighborhood did want to fiddle with his engine, where would he do it?"
"In his garage or the driveway."
"Exactly. And if this road is well-to-do, Rudderman's Lane is two or three times that. Yet today I saw a guy working on his car in the street there. Doesn't make sense. Like so many events and things of the past week, it just doesn't fit."
"What's the other thing?"
"Laura Kincaid's maid."
"Oh it's Laura now is it? My, my, Charlie, you do get acquainted with the women fast don't you?"
"C'mon. Anyway, the maid opened the door while we were in the back yard. That's a little strange I guess. But then Laura said she was retrieving a coat. A coat? It's late summer. Why would a maid leave an overcoat, much less want one, now?"
"Who knows? Eat your fish."
So I returned to the meal and had thrown away the damn worry stick again when the phone rang. It was Joe:
"You know that name you asked me to check on? Wallace Kinchloe?"
"Yeah."
"Uh, born in Danbury, Connecticut… lived in Cohasset?"
"Right. Ah, so you found him. Does he own a boat?"
"Uh, couldn't find that out…"
"Oh. Well where can I reach him then?"
"Can't"
"Well why not?"
"Because he's dead. He died in Boise, Idaho, a year ago."
"Oh," I said, and watched the damn stick turn and come back, flickering bigger and bigger.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Next day I went to visit the Wheel-Lock Corporation in Melrose. It was unseasonably cool so I went dressed with turtleneck, khaki pants, old Harris tweed herringbone sportcoat with leather patches on the elbows, an Irish tweed hat, and rough-out Wallabee shoes. I was smoking a Barling pipe. I was so goddamn literary I looked like I just walked off a dust jacket. I went in and told the receptionist I was starting a small biweekly rag in Concord, and for the first issue wanted to sink my teeth into a really "super" human interest story.
As she went to fetch one of the senior secretaries, I looked around. Wheel-Lock had its own building, all done up nice in fieldstone, rough cast brick and smoked glass. The building was small, and connected to the factory in back. The rough cast brick was a mixture of buff tan and cool gray. The carpeting was a rich chocolate brown with flecks of tan and gray. Abstract oil paintings in bright colors adorned the walls. The place had a rich but muted look. It was not gaudy or glittery, and I thought back to the Kincaid residence at 11 Rudderman's Lane. I had to admit the old boy had excellent taste. I found myself liking him-wishing somehow I could have met him.
On a low table was a pamphlet describing the Wheel-Lock Corporation and its products. On the wall was a copy of an old blueprint of the basic mechanism of the lock and the U.S. Patent number. Inside the lock housing was a round wheel that resembled a cipher rotor. Somehow this device interacted with a bank of electrical circuitry, then reconnected with a fancy geared mechanism that drove a thick bolt of steel. In a glass display case were some recent models of the locks. They were considerably smaller, the result no doubt of solid-state circuitry. The locks were impressive, with thick case-hardened steel and brass and nickel fittings. I strolled around the lobby and saw photographs of various locks being installed. One was on a bank door in Kansas. Another was at some army base. There was a framed copy of the army government contract next to the picture. Though they obviously came in all shapes and sizes I gathered that the Wheel-Lock was basically a super version of the combination lock. It seemed a better mousetrap, and Walter Kincaid had reaped a fortune from it.
"Yes, may I help you?" said the prim fortyish lady with wide goggle glasses and a Diane Von Furstenberg dress. I explained my mission, and she seated us in the corner on an L-shaped couch with a massive cultured marble table. Above us was a gigantic Japanese lantern four feet in diameter, a sphere of paper and wire that was elegant in its simplicity. "Now Mr. Adams, you're doing a story on Mr. Kincaid for which newspaper?"
"Uh, I know you'll think it's corny, but I've named it the Colonial Gazette, if you can believe it."
She looked at me quizzically. Obviously, I looked increasingly less and less literary to her.
"I…see…"
"Excuse me, may I have your name please? I'll mention you in the article."
"Mmm. Mrs. Haskell. Doris Haskell., It doesn't matter if you mention me or not. Also, the papers have given very thorough coverage to Mr. Kincaid's-"
"Oh I know, Mrs. Haskell, but I don't want that stuff in the Gazette. The idea is to give a lot of personal background… you know, how he founded the company… perhaps some of the rough times early on… that sort of thing."
"Oh I can give you a pamphlet that will tell about Wheel-Lock's early days-"
"I'd appreciate it. But isn't there anything else you can tell me about? Something that's not written down anywhere? I mean you know as well as I do that the really interesting stuff-the personal, human interest stuff-is never 'official' information."
"If you are asking me to reveal some dirt or gossip about Mr. Kincaid, or some skeleton in his closet, you are out of luck on two counts, Mr. Adams. First of all, there is no information of this kind-at least that I know of, and I have worked here twelve years-Mr. Kincaid was a very upright man. Second, even if I knew of rumors about him I would, for obvious reasons, never divulge them."