of hundreds of sailing boats in the harbour that were dwarfed by the ferry gliding in amongst them to dock. Ben drove the Jeep down the ramp with the twenty or so other cars aboard, and he and Jude contemplated the island scene before them.
‘Well, here we are,’ Jude said. ‘Now we just need to find Wesley Holland. I don’t suppose he’d be listed in the local phone directory?’
‘That might be just a little too easy,’ Ben said.
As they drove into Oak Bluffs Jude described what a madhouse the place had been when he’d last been here, for the Jawsfest event of 2005. Then, the whole island had been heaving with tourists and movie fans. But despite the islanders’ attempts to dress the town up for Christmas, it was nonetheless very obviously low season, with many places closed up for winter. They parked the Jeep in the tree-lined Circuit Avenue near the harbour, and strolled down the street past neat little stores and restaurants.
‘You think we’ll find him in there having breakfast?’ Jude said, peering inside the door of an eatery that was still open for business.
‘Nope.’
‘Then what are we here for?’
‘Shopping,’ Ben said.
A few blocks down the street, he found what he was looking for. A bell tinkled as he opened the door of the general store and walked inside. The proprietor was a jovial, shiny-cheeked little man with round glasses and a moustache that curled upwards when he smiled. Ben asked him if he sold a good guidebook to the island.
‘This one here is my best seller,’ the storekeeper said, selecting a glossy pocket-sized book from a shelf. ‘Opens up into a handy map. Shows you all the places to stay, eat, things to do. Bearing in mind that the Vineyard goes kinda dead over the colder months.’
‘That’s no problem,’ Ben said. ‘This will do fine.’ He pointed at a stand to the side of the counter. ‘I’d also like a pair of those binoculars.’
‘Minolta ten by fifties,’ the storekeeper said, handing them over to show him. ‘Good price, too. Popular with the tourists. Don’t sell too many this time of year, though.’
Ben gave the binoculars a quick once-over. ‘No need for the box. I’ll take them as they are.’
The storekeeper glowed behind the little round glasses. ‘First time on the Vineyard for you good folks?’
Jude was about to reply, but Ben cut across him. ‘Yes, it is. It’s a beautiful place.’
‘Sure is that,’ the storekeeper said with a smile.
‘In fact I was thinking of bringing my family to live here,’ Ben told him. ‘Tired of the city. I’d bet there’s not a lot of crime out here.’
‘Oh no. The Vineyard’s a real peaceful place. Nothing ever happens here; in fact the only folks who don’t take to Vineyard life are the ones who think it’s too boring. But I’ve lived here all my life and I can’t think of a single place on earth I’d sooner be.’ The storekeeper beamed, and turned to Jude. ‘And so, this must be your son,’ he said.
Ben was taken aback for a moment. Before he could answer, Jude said quickly, ‘We’re not related.’ The storekeeper raised his eyebrows. ‘No? Pardon me.’
Now that Jude had his opening, he pressed on. ‘Do you know if there’s a man called Wesley Holland living on the island?’ he asked, leaning across the counter. ‘He’s a billionaire. White hair. You’d know him from the TV.’
Ben would have grabbed Jude by the neck and turfed him out of the store doorway, but it was too late. He gave him a scalding look.
The storekeeper’s friendly tone became instantly cooler. ‘There’s a lot of wealthy folks and celebrities come to live or stay on the island. They like it here because their privacy is respected; folks leave them alone and don’t ask too many questions.’
The chit-chat was plainly over. Ben paid for his goods and they left the store with a nod.
‘There are ways of finding things out,’ he said as they walked back down Circuit Avenue towards the car. ‘That’s not one of them. Next time, keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking, all right?’
‘What was all that crap about wanting to come and live here with your non-existent family?’ Jude retorted.
Ben flipped through the guidebook as he walked, refusing to let it show that Jude’s words had stung him. ‘Thanks to our friend back there, we know that nothing’s happened on the island lately that might not have hit the news yet. Such as no murders, no robberies.’
‘And no dead billionaires found on the beach this morning. I get it.’
‘So if Wesley Holland is here at all, chances are he’s safely tucked up somewhere in his house by the ocean. Now we just need to locate it.’
‘How big is the island?’
‘Eighty-seven square miles.’
‘And just how does the great detective propose to find this one house in all of that coastline?’
‘The tower of light,’ Ben said simply. When Jude looked puzzled, he explained, ‘Remember what Hillel told us – how Wesley loves to spend time looking out at the waves and the tower of light shining across the water at night? Come on, you’re an ocean kind of person. What does that sound like to you?’ They’d reached the car. Ben bleeped the locks and got behind the wheel.
‘A lighthouse,’ Jude said as he climbed into the passenger side. ‘It sounds like a lighthouse.’
Ben skimmed the guidebook onto Jude’s lap. ‘And according to this book, there are only five of those on the island. Wherever Holland’s place is, it’s got to be within easy reach of one of those five locations.’ He started the engine.
‘You’re the guy. Where do we begin?’
‘We already passed two out of the five on our way in here on the ferry, flanking the mouth of the harbour. They’re called West Chop Light and East Chop Light. Let’s go and check them out.’
Within a few minutes they were driving along East Chop Drive and within sight of the first lighthouse. Built in 1877, according to the guidebook, its first keeper had been a character by the name of Captain Silas Daggett. The eighty-foot whitewashed conical tower stood away from the road, behind a neat white picket fence with a gate and a sandy path that led right up to it.
They got out of the Jeep, walked around the broad base of the lighthouse and scanned the land horizon in all directions, searching for any sign of a billionaire residence with tall windows from which the great man liked to drink in the majestic ocean view. The only houses within sight were fairly unostentatious wooden buildings that nobody would have been ashamed to call home, yet wouldn’t have been the abode of choice for a man of Holland’s limitless wealth. Compared to the Whitworth Mansion, even a comfortable family home for lesser mortals would have seemed like slumming it.
‘This is weird,’ Jude muttered. ‘I feel kind of like a stalker or something.’ After a couple of beats he said, ‘What’s that place over there?’ Ben gazed in the direction he was pointing, and saw a white house through the trees that, from where they were standing, looked larger than the other homes within sight and appeared to offer a view of the waterfront and the lighthouse.
Jude seemed hopeful. ‘Looks promising, wouldn’t you say?’
Up close, the house was obscured from the sea by thick foliage. As they turned into the gate they saw that it was a traditional white-painted wooden nineteenth-century farmhouse with a broad, low veranda over the front porch. There was paint peeling off some of the window frames and the barn roof was rusting in places. Quaint rustic living, low on glamour.
‘Doesn’t look like it to me,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s move on.’
‘Wait. What’s the harm in asking? Maybe somebody here knows