Death at Charity's Point Read online

  Death at Charity’s Point

  A Brady Coyne Mystery

  William G. Tapply

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Preview: The Dutch Blue Error

  Author’s Note

  For Cyn

  Prologue

  ABOUT TWENTY MILES NORTHEAST of Boston as the bluefish swims, between Marblehead and Cape Ann, Charity’s Point juts into the ocean. It forms a natural jetty at the southern end of North Cove Beach. At the tip of Charity’s Point lies a great rock with a sheer hundred-foot face that drops straight down to the ocean. At the foot of this little Gibraltar, the confluence of tides and currents has eaten away a deep bowl where the ocean swirls angrily, high tide or low. The bottom of the bowl is lined with jagged rocks.

  In the summer of 1692 a fourteen-year-old girl hurled herself from the top of the giant boulder to her death. Charity Coughlin chose that manner of death over the gallows to which she and the other accused witches had been condemned. She made her point, and in the process gave her name and a legend to an otherwise insignificant little chunk of New England coastline.

  Nearly three hundred years later a middle-aged schoolteacher named George Gresham took the same route. If Charity Coughlin had died as George Gresham did, if she had known that her body would be flattened, crushed, and broken, that it would be sucked across the rocky bottom of the bowl at the base of the great boulder and flipped up against the face of the cliff by the churning surf—she might have chosen the gallows as a pleasanter way to die.

  The route to the tip of Charity’s Point isn’t usually difficult, but when I returned there in August for my last look, it took me nearly an hour. I parked at the municipal lot at the northern end of North Cove Beach and followed the wet, packed sand along the curving water line. Then I cut back away from the beach through the dunes. The sharp beach grass cut at my ankles, and the soft sand shifted under my feet. There was no path. I clambered over and around the boulders. My knee ached, and my breath came hard.

  I sat on the flat top of the huge rock out at the tip, where I could look almost straight down into the crashing surf one hundred feet below. Mist sifted up through the roar and boom of the breakers, filming the jumble of rocks around me with a slick, oily sheen.

  I lit a cigarette and felt no qualms about the poisons I was sucking into my lungs. A month earlier I had been a living corpse, my jaw wired shut, electrodes taped to my skull, half choked by my torn and swollen tongue. My shattered knee had been packed in ice.

  I shifted my position to ease the throbbing in my knee. The orthopedist said I had been lucky. Simply a matter of ligaments. It could have been worse, he’d said matter-of-factly. A blow like that could shatter the patella and pop the cartilage, dislocate the whole intricate structure, as when the quarterback catches his spikes in the turf and gets hit from one side at the shoulders, and then two hundred and seventy pounds of defensive tackle smashes him low from the opposite side.

  The young doctor had demonstrated with his hands on me, and I’d shuddered.

  Soon I’d be able to wade a gentle trout stream like Nashoba Brook or the Squannicook. And I’d try a round of golf, although I knew that driving my legs through the ball properly would hurt.

  The pain I could bear. Hell, the pain would feel good. It would remind me I was alive.

  George Gresham should have been so lucky.

  I pulled my knees painfully up to my chin and hugged them against the evening chill. A breeze sprang up. I cursed myself for leaving my sweatshirt in the car.

  The moon had risen above the cloud bank. Its beams shattered on the ocean, a million tiny crystals of light. A beautiful, peaceful sight from Charity’s Point. I was only dimly aware of the continual crashing of the surf below.

  I gazed off to my right to the lights of Peach Point. Beyond that, tucked into the great cove of Massachusetts Bay, lay Boston, where I lived and worked, barrister to wealthy Brahmins and any others willing to pay my fees. Forty-two years old, and happy just to be alive.

  Three months earlier, Florence Gresham had called me to report that her son had died. It had seemed at the time like a routine matter for her family’s attorney. I could settle estates with my eyes closed.

  But it had gotten complicated.

  CHAPTER 1

  IT WAS FLORENCE GRESHAM who had set my career—such as it is—on its present course when she called me for the first time back in 1969.

  “Is this Brady Coyne himself?” she demanded.

  I assured her that it was.

  “Because I don’t want to speak to some flunky.”

  “No, it’s me,” I said. I didn’t tell her that there were no flunkies at Brady L. Coyne, Inc. Just me.

  “Okay. I have an unusual piece of business for you, Mr. Coyne,” she continued in that whiskey-hoarse voice of hers. In those days I was taking whatever sort of business came my way—and there hadn’t been much of it for a determinedly lone-wolf attorney in Boston, a city of staid, old firms which recruited almost exclusively from Harvard. I rather valued what I had learned at Yale Law School, but I found eyebrows raised when potential clients realized I hadn’t worn the crimson.

  Florence never told me how she got my name. I suspect she wanted someone exactly like the way I was in those days: energetic, independent, hungry.

  “How can I help you?” I asked her, hoping desperately that I could.

  “One year ago my husband and I received notification from the United States Army that our younger son was missing in action. A ‘routine patrol northwest of Hué.’ it said. We have heard nothing more. I want to know what has happened to my son.”

  “I’m an attorney, Mrs. Gresham,” I said. “This is not, strictly speaking, a legal matter.”

  “I’ll call someone else, then,” she said. I soon learned that Florence Gresham was always direct.

  I quickly assured her that of course I could conduct an investigation, that a discreet attorney was probably exactly what she needed.

  “Do whatever you need to do,” she said, adding that I needn’t concern myself with the expenses. “Your fee will be adequate.”

  Implicit was the promise that, should I perform satisfactorily, there would be more business available to me from the Gresham family.

  Lt. Winchester Gresham’s old CO, I was able to learn, had been rotated stateside and was attached to the Pentagon. He received me graciously in his high-ceilinged office, an imposing figure in his starched and beribboned uniform.

  “Lieutenant Gresham,” he said. “Yes, I remember him well. Of course. A superior soldier.”

  Major Henderson stood by a floor-to-ceiling window and stared out over a broad lawn, watching a figure ride a lawn-mower across it. “He was on patrol. They walked right into an ambush. There were twelve of them altogether. It was a routine mission, really. We hadn’t heard of any VC activity in the area. We didn’t think there would be any problems.”

  Henderson turned to frown at me. “Four of the boys came back. The two who could walk carried the other two. One, as I recall, died shortly thereafter. Lieutenant Gresham was not among them. When we sent a patrol back, we found no bodies.” He shrugged. “That’s all we know, Mr. Coyne. Officially, they are missing in action. Prisoners of war, although the enemy has not given us t
he courtesy of an official pronouncement.” Major Henderson ran his hand over his close-clipped, military haircut. “You understand, Mr. Coyne, they are probably all dead.”

  One of the survivors of that patrol, the Major informed me, was still recuperating from his wounds in a V.A. hospital in South Carolina. I found Corporal Lucas Potter sitting in a wheelchair in a big day room watching television the afternoon I visited him, a freckle-faced, red-haired young man with jug ears and sharp blue eyes. A blanket was thrown over him so that he looked like a disembodied head set atop a large brown sack.

  “I’m Brady Coyne,” I said, extending my hand.

  He didn’t shake it. “Hi,” he said, not taking his eyes from the quiz show.

  “You knew Win Gresham,” I said to him, pulling up a folding chair.

  “Sure.”

  “You were with him when…”

  “When we got it. Yup.”

  “Can you remember what happened to Gresham?”

  Potter’s eyes wavered from the television screen, and his head turned slowly to face me. “Listen Mr.—what was it?”

  “Coyne. Brady Coyne.”

  “Okay. Mr. Coyne. There were machine guns and explosions all around us. I was flat on my belly, digging my face into the dirt the whole time, I don’t mind telling you. Wondering if I was dead yet, you know? I had been hit and I was hurtin’, and I didn’t see much. But I could hear the Lieutenant. He was swearing and yelling at us, telling us to fight, goddamn it, to fall back. He was in charge. Wasn’t for him, none of us would’ve gotten out.”

  “But he didn’t get out.”

  “He didn’t?” Potter frowned at me.

  “According to the Army.”

  “The Army,” repeated Potter. He looked as if he had bitten into a bar of soap. His eyes slipped back to the television. “They say so, I guess it’s true. I was hurt bad. What the hell do I know about it?”

  “You think he got out?”

  “Nope. Not me. The Army says he didn’t get out, he didn’t get out.”

  “You never saw him, then, after that patrol?”

  “I told you, mister. I was injured. Still am, in case you couldn’t tell. They shot me up with morphine and loaded me onto a chopper, and I don’t know what happened to anybody.”

  “Do you think Lieutenant Gresham’s dead?”

  “Could be. I guess so.” He turned his head slightly toward me. “That’s what the Army says, ain’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s what he is.”

  “Okay.” I paused. “Tell me. What kind of a soldier was Gresham?”

  Porter’s head swiveled around to look at me. “He was a good fuckin’ soldier. A killin’ machine, the Lieutenant. That’s what he was. A killin’ machine. He talked funny. Like an intellectual, you know? A college boy. But he was one mean son of a bitch. We all obeyed him. Oh, yes. He’d of shot us if we didn’t. We all knew that. He hated everybody. He hated us, he hated the gooks, he hated the officers who gave him orders. Helluva soldier, the Lieutenant. He say shit, you say where, sir.”

  I stood. Lucas Potter was again staring at the flickering television screen. I couldn’t tell what might have been registering behind those unblinking blue eyes. His expression didn’t waver. I bent down to his side and said, “Thanks, soldier.” I squeezed his arm as I turned to leave.

  Except there was no arm under the blanket. I wondered what else that had belonged to Corporal Lucas Potter was still missing in the jungles somewhere northwest of Hue.

  After that I could learn no more. I wrote up a report and delivered it to Florence Gresham at her home in Beverly Farms. She read it with narrowed eyes.

  “He called Win a killing machine. Were those his words?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But remember, this was an ignorant farm boy whose arms had been blown off. A bitter kid. I wouldn’t put too much stock in what he says.”

  She shook her head. “No, the boy’s right. That would be Win, all right. A killing machine. My son had a great capacity for hatred and cruelty. Just the opposite of George. George is a gentle boy. My Cain and my Abel.”

  Florence Gresham said this matter-of-factly, much as if she were discussing characters in a book. She peered at me. “He could still be alive.”

  “Oh, now, Mrs. Gresham…”

  “No, he could,” she said, nodding her head vigorously. “He’s a survivor, Win. And,” she added, her voice soft, “a killing machine.”

  I had not really done my job. The question of what had happened to Lt. Winchester Gresham in the jungles of Vietnam had not been definitively answered. But Florence Gresham seemed satisfied. She put me on retainer. Some of her wealthy friends began to do the same. I have, ever since, served the legal needs of rich folks.

  A month or so after I delivered my report, two uniformed Army officers knocked at Florence Gresham’s door. They presented her with a letter from the President of the United States, Richard M. Nixon, which purported to recount Lt. Gresham’s courage in battle and to cite the manner in which he met his death. They handed her two small, velvet-covered boxes. One contained a bronze star. The other held a purple heart.

  Lt. Winchester Gresham was now, officially, killed in action. Florence Gresham thanked the gentlemen and didn’t mention her son, the “killing machine,” at least in my presence, for another twelve years.

  Throughout the Winchester Gresham affair, Florence never revealed to me the slightest hint of emotion. Win might just as well have been a stranger to her. Her interest appeared to be strictly intellectual. She had a question, she wanted an answer, and she was prepared to pay a persevering lawyer handsomely to try to produce that answer.

  As I worked with her over the next several years, I learned to recognize her characteristic response to bad news: Her eyes would narrow, the corners of her mouth would pinch, and she would say, “Well, that’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

  She didn’t believe in God, or the stars, or bad luck. She simply felt that one did the best one could, and that regrets and second-guessing were a waste of time. That philosophy held equally true for her personal tragedies as for her business reverses. What happened one sultry July evening in 1974 showed me that.

  Florence and her husband, Dudley, had been sipping gin-and-tonics in the living room of their summer place, which Florence insisted in calling a “cottage”—all twelve rooms of fieldstone, with its nine acres of manicured lawns and formal rose gardens high on a hill overlooking the sea in Bar Harbor, Maine. They were watching the United States House of Representatives conduct impeachment hearings and chatting idly after a day of sailing in their thirty-eight-foot sloop, which Florence called “the little boat.” Dudley had painted its name and port of call in square black letters across its transom. It read: DAUGHTER, BAR HARBOR.

  Dud Gresham was absently scratching the ears of his pair of field trial champion English setters, Boone and Crockett. Their surviving son, George, was upstairs reading Toynbee.

  A Republican Congressman from Maine named Cohen was declaring his mournful duty to the nation. A Profile in Courage in the midst of the President’s Last Crisis.

  “Think he’s Jewish?” Florence asked.

  “Mmm,” replied Dudley. “From Maine?”

  “I think he’s Jewish,” said Florence. “That explains it.”

  Dud Gresham scratched Boone’s ears.

  Dud was happy to leave the management of the Gresham holdings to Florence. I worked for her, not them. In the five years since I had investigated Win’s death, though, I had come to know Dud well. We never talked business. He preferred to tell rambling tales of grouse hunting in Scotland and Wales, quail shooting in Georgia, and bringing geese to the decoys over Chesapeake Bay. Florence and Dudley considered their division of labor equitable. They both did what they wanted to do. It was more than tolerance—they seemed to be genuinely in love with each other.

  On that July evening, Dud Gresham smiled at the image of the young Congressman from Maine, set down his empty g
lass, whistled to Boone and Crockett, and went upstairs. Florence wagged her fingers at him without taking her eyes off the television set.

  I have imagined what Dud did then. He unlocked the polished oak gun cabinet that stood in the corner of his study and removed his Purdy double. He sat on the ragged, overstuffed easy chair, rubbing his thumb along the oiled stock of the fine shotgun. Boone and Crockett rested their chins on his leg. Then Dud stood up. “Wait,” I can hear him instructing the dogs. He slipped a shell into the right chamber and carefully closed the gun. It shut with the satisfying click of an expensive precision instrument. Boone and Crockett sat and watched, their tails twitching expectantly.

  I can still see Dud in my mind’s eye, striding down the hallway, gun slung under his arm, as if he were crossing a meadow on a frosty October morning. I imagine his purposeful stride, as if he were intent on keeping up with the dogs as they ranged wide, seeking the day’s first covey.

  He entered the bathroom, locked the door behind him, sat on the closed toilet seat, bit down on the business end of the gun barrels, and blew the back of his head all over Florence’s monogrammed towels.

  Florence refused to let the police break down the door of the bathroom. It took an hour for the carpenter to remove the entire frame. “Wouldn’t do Dud any good to ruin the door,” Florence said. “Dud’s an excellent shot,” she added.

  Dud left a note. “Not because of him,” is what it said. The summer people of Bar Harbor were divided on the interpretation of Dud’s note. Some figured Dud was referring to Win; others figured he meant Nixon. A third school of thought held that Dud meant George, whose decision to pursue the ascetic life of a scholar—and who detested hunting—must have been a grave disappointment to his parents, and that the note was Dud’s way of absolving him.

  The carpenter replaced the door. Florence’s housekeeper cleaned up the mess in the bathroom. I settled the matter of Dud’s estate. For Florence, life went on. A week or so after they buried Dud, she was back in the bathroom soaking in the old-fashioned porcelain tub when she summoned the housekeeper.