Linda Fairstein - The Kills

The lone outpost at the end of the road was a small gray building just beyond the harbormaster. On the land side, the gas pumps that fueled our cars were half-covered with what had once been Menemsha's beach. The other side was known as Squid Row, where boats gassed up before heading back out to sea, through the Bight, onto the corner at Devil's Bridge, where Vineyard Sound met the Atlantic Ocean. On a given morning, the old-timers filled the benches there, trading yarns and fish tales, while cabin cruisers vied for space at the dock with working boats that trolled the waters for blues and stripers.

Cassie, the sixteen-year-old girl who usually pumped my gas, held open the door for me when she saw me coming in. "Hey, Alex, wasn't that awesome last night?"

"Guess so. Hope you were home with your folks."

"Yep. Drove down here this morning but had to leave the car at the top of the hill and walk down 'cause of the sand and all. Picked up some stuff from Humphrey's," she said, lifting the lid on a box of pastries and baked goods. "Got a little generator, too, so we have some coffee brewed. Help yourself."

She turned away and walked to the door that opened onto the dock, pushing it and sticking her head out for a look at something. "Hey, Ozzie," she called out to one of the ancient mariners seated with their backs against the shop, "let me know when that big one pulls in. I don't want to miss her."

"She's next. Get yourself out here," came the reply.

"Wanna see a beauty?" she asked me. "Fancy yacht out here waiting to fill up."

I poured myself a cup of coffee and grabbed three sugared doughnut holes before stepping out onto the dock and saying hello to several of the regulars who had parked themselves at the water's edge for a bird's-eye view of the day's events. It was certain that there would be no traffic on the land side for the foreseeable future.

By the time I stepped out onto Squid Row, the gleaming black-hulled vessel had maneuvered its way into the harbor and turned around so that its rear end was against the dock, ready to start refueling.

The gold letters shined brightly as the sun glanced off them. Pirate was the name of the boat, and its home port was Nantucket. Graham Hoyt's yacht.

I closed my eyes and thought of last night's prowler. Could it possibly have been Graham Hoyt? How could I have forgotten that he was the one who first talked to me about coming to the Vineyard because of the storm?

The first mate and steward, dressed in crisp white sweatshirts with the yacht's name and outline emblazoned on the chest, were tying up along the pier. Cassie was asking them if they needed help and trying to make herself useful.

I started to make small talk with them, too, anxious to find out where they-and their skipper-had spent the previous evening. "She's a beauty. Hope you didn't have anyone on board during that blow last night."

"Had her all safe and sound, thanks, in the lee. No harm done."

"She'd hardly fit here in Menemsha," I said, aware that the marinas in Edgartown and Vineyard Haven would have had no problem docking a boat this size.

"No, no. Over in Nantucket," the mate shot back. "That's her home."

"You guys actually sit it out on the water in this?"

"Captain's orders," he said, looking over at the steward and laughing.

"Must have been rough."

"They don't make enough Dramamine to get you through one of these. And we were damn well sheltered."

Cassie was filling the fuel tanks and surveying the length of the yacht with great admiration.

I laughed, too. "Bet the owner doesn't hang out in the storm with you."

"Are you kidding? He wouldn't leave this baby for a minute. Rode the whole thing through with us. Only his wife got a pass to stay onshore."

"Is that you, Alexandra? I would never have recognized you."

I was startled by the sound of Hoyt's voice. Squinting and shielding my eyes from the sun, I raised my head and saw him in the cockpit on the flying bridge, one flight above the crew.

"I was just trying to call you," he said, waving the cell phone in his hand. "Thought sevenA.M. was a respectable time to wake you up. We're heading for the city and needed to gas up. Don't know when the airport will reopen but thought you might want to hitch back with us."

"Way to go, Alex," Cassie said. "Totally cool."

"No thanks, Graham. Cell phones don't work in Menemsha." This sleepy little village was a black hole in the world of cell communications. "There's no tower."

"No tower, no power," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "How about the ride home?"

"Thanks. I may stay on the island for a while," I said, lying to him. I wasn't about to spend another night in the house until the broken glass was replaced and the locks and alarm system were changed. But that didn't mean I was ready to set out on the high seas with Graham Hoyt.

"I bet you won't say no to a hot breakfast. How about you, young lady? Want a tour?"

Cassie had stepped out of her boots and climbed on board without hesitating for a moment. From over my shoulder I heard one of the guys on the bench urging me to follow her. "What are you waitin' for, honey? Don't see one of these big guys pull into town every day. You afraid they's got Bluebeard hiding belowdeck or what?"

I forced a smile and kicked off my boots, winking at the grizzled old-timers. "If they pull out with Cassie and me on board, tell Chip to get the navy after them, okay?"

The men laughed but I wasn't entirely kidding.

Hoyt extended his hand to help me off the ladder, then turned to the steward. "Why don't you tell the chef to set a table on the aft deck for three? Some scrambled eggs and bacon, a fresh pot of coffee, and some juice."

The knots in my stomach were turning somersaults. Perhaps it was because I had not really eaten yesterday, but also because I worried about where Graham Hoyt had been during the storm. What if his crew were covering for him? They had no reason to be setting up a false alibi, I reassured myself. They couldn't possibly have thought that the bedraggled woman in the oversized flannel shirt and the Capri-length chinos was trying to cross-examine them.

"So this is my little folly, Alex. Let me show you two around."

I followed Hoyt and Cassie through the entrance into the yacht's main salon. The entire room was paneled in teakwood, with thick green leather sofas and wool sisal carpeting. Crystal wine goblets hung upside down over the wide bar, notched in place so they wouldn't fly off and break in the fiercest of storms.

"Come see the staterooms," he said, leading us down the aft staircase. The master had a queen-sized bed and full bathroom, and the two smaller rooms were just as exquisitely appointed, in the softest shade of sea foam.

"How big is she?" Cassie asked.

"Ninety-eight feet. A Palmer Johnson. Cruises at twelve and a half knots, holds five thousand gallons of fuel."

Cassie was more interested in the specs than I was, but the thought of the upkeep was overwhelming. It had to cost more than a million dollars a year to keep this toy afloat, with its crew of four and all that went with it.

Back on deck, I leaned over to check whether I could see how far below water the boat's bottom went. "What does she draw?"

"Six feet. We just make it in here."

I noticed a small motorboat tied up alongside us. A twenty-foot Boston Whaler. For most people, that would have been more than enough of a vessel.

I looked at the gold lettering on the rear of the Pirate 's tender: Rebecca.

I turned to Hoyt. "Daphne du Maurier?"

"You mean Rebecca ? Is that what I named her for? You really see murder in everything, don't you, Alex?" Hoyt shook his finger at me.

"Happens to be one of my favorite novels."