Lost Distinction (Jordan James, PI Series) Page 6

  When we reached the opening in the white picket fence that protected the lighthouse, I realized Rick was behind me. He took my hand again as we walked across the field. We were not the only visitors that sunny afternoon. I counted five others, as well as the shorthaired woman and her motley prepubescent crew.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been to this one,” Rick muttered, staring up at the structure. “I’m going up. Do you want to come?”

  Michelle had walked away from the lighthouse and was staring out into the azure water. I shook my head. “In a little bit.”

  He nodded before making his way inside. William walked around the lighthouse, disappearing from view. I approached Michelle slowly. Without turning around, she said, “The water’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “It is. The Gulf of Mexico is never this clear.”

  “That’s a shame. There are lots of beaches on Oahu but my favorite is Waimanalo Bay. It’s not a private beach but it’s also not as big a tourist area as Waikiki. My brother taught me how to surf there when I was a little girl.”

  I waited, unwilling to interrupt her memories.

  A few moments later, she gestured toward the lighthouse. “You didn’t want to go up with Richard? It offers a great view of the ocean. Very romantic.”

  “I’m all right.” I paused. “I was kind of hoping we could talk.”

  “Business or personal?”

  “I guess it’s a little of both, actually.”

  “Then the subject of our discussion must be family.”

  I nodded and she flipped her hair back. I marveled at how she could make even an ordinary task like that appear glamorous.

  “What would you like to know? I’d be more than happy to tell you anything. Well, almost anything.”

  “Mr. Cross said he and Arthur were in close contact during the days leading up to his disappearance because of a business arrangement. Do you know what the arrangement was?”

  A confused expression crossed her face. “A business arrangement between Arthur and Gatlin? That can’t be right.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they weren’t speaking.”

  I stared at her in shock. Of the scant details I had on the case, it was clear a rift existed between Arthur and his father. It didn’t take a private eye to make that deduction. Still, standing there, I found myself wondering if the ambassador was more involved than he let on.

  The woman with the short, black hair had a tight grip on the sleeve of the red-haired girl. The girl cried out in protest as her mother pulled her away from the lighthouse and her friends to scold her publicly. The girl’s response rivaled her mother’s in both theatrics and volume. As their dispute grew louder, it became more difficult to focus on our discussion.

  Finally, unable to take it any longer, Michelle took my arm and we walked to the other side of the lighthouse. In the distance, I saw William smoking what was clearly not a cigarette. When the girl’s childish quarrel was muted by several shrubs, which acted as a sound barrier, I turned my attention back to Michelle’s remarks.

  “Okay, now please tell me why they weren’t speaking.”

  “For the same reason Richard hasn’t been around in a while. Gatlin had a plan for Arthur’s future and when Arthur refused to go along with it, Gatlin drove his son away. It’s the same reason Eddie joined the Navy. He wanted to escape the family dramas. But Eddie isn’t as strong as Arthur. He couldn’t stay away. But then again, if what you’re saying is true, Arthur can’t either.”

  Chapter 6

  As we stood there, Michelle provided me with a detailed description of the Cross family history. The ambassador’s family emigrated from England in the late 1870s during the Reconstruction Period. William’s boast about their royal lineage was true. They were actually descended from the House of York. Ties to the former royal family did nothing to help the Cross family when they crossed the pond. The ambassador’s great-grandfather, Alfred, had to work the docks in Boston, begging for whatever work he could find. His tireless efforts did not go unnoticed. When his two sons were of age, they were offered jobs supervising workers for the company that employed their father.

  Alfred’s son, the ambassador’s grandfather, Ashton, was more ambitious than his brother, Christopher. Ruthless, Ashton made business deals that benefited the company, but in turn destroyed the lives of those he considered to be expendable employees, people like his own father.

  The owner of the company was so impressed by Ashton that when a tragic accident resulted in the death of the owner’s son, he offered to send Ashton to Yale for college in the boy’s place.

  Ashton immediately accepted the offer and graduated from Yale with high honors four years later. When he returned home, he married his benefactor’s daughter, thus securing a permanent place in the family’s shipping business.

  By 1913, his father-in-law was getting older and offered the company to Ashton as he had no other heirs. Again, Ashton seized the opportunity. His first order of business was to restructure the company from the ground up in hopes of making cost-effective policies.

  He promoted his brother, Christopher, to his management team and Christopher excelled in his new position. Unfortunately, at this time Ashton no longer looked at his employees as people but instead as assets or liabilities. When he ordered Christopher to fire the older laborers who still worked the docks, including their own father, Christopher refused and quit. They never spoke to each other again.

  “So Christopher was Rick’s great-grandfather?”

  Michelle nodded. “Yeah, but honestly, I don’t know much about him. Eddie only told me about his great-grandfather.”

  “From what I’ve heard, Mr. Cross was a U.S. senator before he became an ambassador, right? That’s pretty impressive. Do you know what put that chain of events in progress?”

  Michelle turned her wedding ring around her finger. The diamond glistened each time the sun hit it. “I guess I would say Ashton Cross did. His wife had four kids before she died of pneumonia, but he had only one son, Gatlin’s father, James. Supposedly, Ashton had big plans for his only son, but James wasn’t really ambitious. Eddie said the only thing he ever did that pleased his father was to marry into a political family.”

  When I nodded, she continued, “Gatlin’s mother was a Dow.”

  “And who are the Dows?” I smiled at Rick as he approached us, the wind blowing through his brown hair.

  “Andrew Dow was a Massachusetts senator during the 1920s. When the market crashed in 1929, he was one of the few politicians who didn’t freak out about it. Instead, he took the initiative to fix the problem. Eddie says that he was a man before his time.”

  Rick hugged me. “What are you two talking about?”

  Michelle brushed her hair behind her ears. “Oh, just the Cross family history.”

  Rick frowned, but didn’t say anything more.

  “So, Andrew made a name for himself and became known as the People’s Senator,” Michelle continued. “He was prepared for the Great Depression and had enough money to provide for his family during one of the country’s worst eras. He was not discouraged by the Depression, but instead motivated by it. He pictured the country getting through that difficult time when no one else did and came up with strategies that helped Massachusetts survive. Ashton Cross was very well connected by this time. He arranged for his son, James, to meet Andrew’s daughter, Teresa.”

  “And they were married?” I concluded.

  Michelle nodded.

  I realized everyone else was gone. Except for the waves breaking against the rocky shore, there was silence. A car horn startled me and I turned in the direction of the sound. Edward waved at us from the passenger side of a mint-green retro convertible.

  “Come on you guys!” he called, laughing. “Time for lunch. Brock here wa
s kind enough to offer us a ride.”

  The vehicle’s driver leaned forward so we could see him and I was not surprised to see that Brock was the “obsequious no-name attorney” from the beach club. Edward slapped his hand on the outside of the car door, still laughing.

  Although the driver cringed, a smile was plastered across his face whenever Edward looked in his direction. I turned to Michelle. She appeared unaffected by this development and sauntered over to the car. Edward hopped out and she climbed in the back and sat down on the white-leather bench seat. Rick began to walk down the dirt path that formed in the grass from decades of foot traffic and through an opening in the picket fence.

  Remembering William, I hurried back toward the lighthouse. He was leaning against it, taking a long drag from a joint, his fingers pinching the roach. When he noticed me, he held it out. I shook my head and smirking, he took another hit.

  “Have a nice history lesson?”

  “I guess.”

  “If you’re looking for answers, you’re not gonna get ‘em from Miss America.” Taking one last drag, he approached me, a strange look in his eyes. “Me, on the other hand—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She knows textbook answers. You want to know about the real Arthur, I’m your man.” He coughed. “I can tell you about his past. You know, the anger issues, the drinking, the women—”

  “Jordan!” Rick walked toward us, failing to hide his frustration.

  “To be continued.” William winked, brushing past Rick.

  I watched him leave, baffled by the suggestion. I wanted to confront him, but sensed he was done talking for now. Sighing, I followed Rick to the car.

  To describe Brock’s vehicle as a car didn’t do it justice. It was more like a boat. In my life, I’ve been to small-town block parties where people show off old cars and I even went to a few car shows years back with Greg Bell, my ex-boyfriend from high school, but I never rode in any of those vehicles.

  As we approached the car, I couldn’t help but stare and reflect on everything. If someone told me Friday morning that the very next day I would have sailed to Martha’s Vineyard on an ambassador’s yacht and then received a ride from a stranger in a car right out of a 1960s beach party movie, I probably wouldn’t have believed that person. But then again, the one rule I always followed in my current profession was to go with the flow.

  Brock took my stunned silence as a testament to his car’s magnificence. “It’s a 1963 Ford Thunderbird.” Draping his arm across the thin steering wheel, he bragged, “Everything is original.”

  Edward leaned out the car. “Pretty sweet, huh, Richard? Check this out. White wall tires!”

  Rick nodded as he helped me into the car before climbing in. William squeezed in after, forcing us to move. I ended up on Rick’s lap. As soon as we were seated, Brock drove off. He made a U-turn in the street and headed back down the long and winding road toward the beach house. Rick put his arms around me and made small talk with Edward and Brock.

  I wanted to talk to William, but he ignored me. Instead, I spent most of the short drive looking at the homes and the people we passed. Almost all the houses along East Chop Drive were Victorian-style, two-story homes with large, well-manicured yards. Soon we drove by the harbor where I could see the Cross family yacht securely docked.

  We drove down Lake Avenue, another street along the harbor, and I began to feel self-conscious as Brock intentionally slowed his speed and turned the radio up. People walking by couldn’t help but notice the bright classic car with its seemingly well-known occupant.

  I observed that more pedestrians stared at Michelle than Edward, probably confusing her with any number of young celebrities that frequent the Vineyard during the summer months. Edward seemed to overlook this fact and waved as people pointed and stared. When an old sixties’ song came on, Edward turned the radio up.

  “Come on, Richard. You know this one,” he grinned. Rick shook his head and Edward slapped his seat. “Come on! I know you know this one. It’s one of the songs you and Arthur used to play. Sing!”

  “I don’t do that anymore.” As the song continued, he Rick admitted, “Arthur and I kind of had a band in high school.”

  “You were in a band?”

  “It was no big deal.”

  “No big deal? Whatever. You guys were actually decent.” Edward glanced at me. “This guy was the lead singer and guitarist. Arthur played the keyboard and they had two friends who played bass and drums.”

  “They were the fab four!” William mocked, laughing to himself.

  Michelle pulled down her sunglasses and raised an eyebrow. “Arthur was in a band?”

  Rick, relieved to have the attention shifted, nodded. “Yeah.”

  Edward frowned as the song ended. “Man, you really suck. You should have sung that. It would have been like old times.”

  “So we can draw even more attention to ourselves? No thanks. I’ve had enough of old times.”

  Edward’s frown deepened. Hoping to end an awkward moment, Brock asked Edward his opinion about some new bills that would be going before the Senate during the next session. Without pause, Edward responded with a seemingly well-rehearsed monologue.

  The remainder of the drive took about ten minutes and with the exception of some politically-motivated inquiries made by Brock, it was a nice, quiet ride. Rick pointed out the left side of the car at well-manicured greens and white sand traps.

  “That’s the Edgartown Golf Club.”

  “Next you’re going to tell me you play golf, right?”

  Rick’s face flushed. “Well, not too much now, but I did.”

  Edward overheard our discussion and craned his neck to glance at us. “Sure seems like your girlfriend doesn’t know much about you, Richard.” William grinned at his brother’s comment. Before Rick could respond, Edward pointed to the right. “That’s it.”

  Brock pulled the car up to the front of a one-story house with white siding and green awnings above each window. Perfectly trimmed hedges framed the building. Above the front door an evergreen sign read, ‘Old Towne Fish & Chips.’

  Edward climbed out of the car and helped Michelle get out before going around to the driver’s side to thank Brock. Rick helped me out and stared at me as we walked in front of the car. William ambled up to the front door, stretching before sauntering inside.

  Michelle was standing there, waiting for us. Obviously noticing the look in Rick’s eyes, she said, “I’ll give you a minute.”

  Rick tentatively took my hand. We walked toward the side of the restaurant where a black, wrought iron bench had been placed beneath three oak trees. We sat down and Rick stared at me. He cleared his throat. “What was that, with William?”

  “Huh?”

  “At the lighthouse.”

  “You mean when I was trying to get answers for this case?” Watching his face turn crimson, I added, “What’d you think, I was getting high?”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I feel like I need to apologize again.”

  I’d say so, I thought to myself. Despite feeling aggravated by his jealousy and by the fact that there was even more about my boyfriend I didn’t know, I was not angry with him. Honestly, I was hurt, but that was an issue to resolve at another time. I shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, I shouldn’t have asked you to come here.”

  Suddenly, I found myself growing annoyed despite my best efforts not to. “What do you mean?”

  Rick noticed my emotional shift and scratched his head. After taking several moments to decide how to word his next statement, he said, “I mean, I shouldn’t have asked you to help with Arthur’s disappearance. I should have kept you away from, well, from all of this.”

  I crossed my arms. “This is your family, Rick. How are we suppose
d to have an honest relationship if you won’t even introduce me to your family?” He sat there in silence. “We really need to discuss this. Later.”

  He stared at me from the bench but said nothing. I couldn’t tell if he was angry, frustrated, or sorry. Sighing, I stood up and walked inside.

  The interior of the restaurant was tastefully decorated with nautical oil paintings. Each oak table in the moderately-sized establishment had a small votive candle from which light flickered against the walls. Both the bench seats and regular chairs were black leather and the walls were painted an off-white color, which contrasted nicely with the dark, wood floor.

  A maitre d’ stood behind a mahogany podium and smiled smugly as I entered. He wasn’t tall, five-foot-six tops, but his thin stature and bourgeois attitude made up for his vertical deficiencies. He smoothed his graying mustache and cleared his throat. “Welcome to Old Towne Fish & Chips. Do you have a reservation?”

  Before I could reply, Michelle walked up and put her arm through mine. “That’s enough, Tristan. She’s with us.”

  As soon as Michelle spoke, the little man’s brown eyes bulged and his mouth dropped. He placed his right hand over his heart and bowed. “My apologies, Miss. I had no idea you were with the Cross family.”

  Michelle rolled her eyes as she guided me past the entryway and through the open dining room. Against the far left wall was a group of smaller tables that had been pushed together to make one large table. I was surprised when instead of heading to it, where all the Crosses sat, Michelle led me toward a short hallway on the far right side of the restaurant.