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."
"Oh no, I wouldn't expect you to. I'm not after that kind of scandal-sheet stuff. Tell me, is there anyone you know of who would want to kill Walter Kincaid?"
She was clearly taken back by the suggestion.
"What? I cannot imagine anyone who would be less a candidate for murder."
"So you knew him well?"
"As well as any of the older staff. You think he's been killed?"
"Not sure. Do you think he's alive?"
She sighed a bit and looked down at her hands.
"No I don't. Mr. Kincaid always kept in close touch with the office even though he was no longer directly involved with the day-to-day operations. He wouldn't have gone off for over a week without telling us. Something's happened to him-I'm sure of it-but don't you quote me! I'll deny ever having said it; the official corporate line is that we're not giving up hope."
"And you know of nobody who hated Walter Kincaid?"
"The only man-the only man who ever hated him is dead."
"And who was that?"
"He was Jim Schilling, a former vice president of Wheel-Lock. Mr. Kincaid promoted him up the executive ladder from as salesman. He had an incredible amount of energy and he was a terrific salesman. You know, good-looking… smooth. He was a real macho type too. Loved to hunt and fish. He was in terrific shape all the time. You know the kind."
"Uh huh."
"I think Jim Schilling was jogging ten years before the fad hit, you know?"
"Yeah. What happened between them then? They were good friends, right?"
"Oh yes. They were almost like brothers for years. They went fishing together lots at first. Then something-I don't know what it was-happened. Some think Mr. Kincaid began to fear Jim-you know, began to get the feeling that Jim was going to try to take over the company or something. They began to argue about different company policies, advertising campaigns-things like that. Jim started saying Mr. Kincaid was losing touch with the marketing end of the business-that he was too old. Mr. Kincaid found out about it and fired him. It was rumored around here that he regretted the decision almost as soon as he made it. But Mr. Kincaid was pretty stubborn, and wouldn't change his mind. Jim moved out to California right after that, and was killed the following year."
"How was he killed?"
"They think he drowned."
"They think?"
"Uh huh. You see it was on a hunting trip. Jim went to Alaska to hunt polar bears. No wait. It wasn't polar bears-the another kind."
"Alaskan brown bear?"
"Right! Hey how'd you know? Do you hunt?"
"Just birds occasionally. But I love to study wildlife. So Jim Schilling went to Alaska to hunt the brown bears. And then?"
"Well-let's see if I can remember, it was almost a year ago-they flew to a certain special place in Alaska in a small plane."
"The Kenai Peninsula perhaps?"
"Hey, that's right again! How did you know?"
"Because the Kenai Peninsula is famous for big bears. The only place more famous is Kodiak Island. So who did he fly there with?"
"A pilot. A bush pilot-I guess that's the expression, right?"
"Yes. And the plane crashed?"
"Oh no. They landed all right and loaded up a boat with their gear, and went poking along the shoreline of the peninsula looking for bear. According to the story, Jim and the guide split up and Jim took the boat alone. They were going to meet at sundown or something, each one looking for bear that they could stalk-is that the right word, stalk?-the next day."
"He was with the pilot? That's odd…"
"Huh? Oh I don't think so, Mr. Adams. I think the pilot just dropped him off. I think the guide was an Eskimo or something. Anyway sundown came and went, and no Jim. The next day the guide went walking up the coast looking for him, and he found the boat, half sunk, washed up against a fallen tree in the water. No sign of Jim. He looked for the rest of the day-even built a smoke-signal fire and shot his gun and everything. Nothing."
"Hmmrrm1m. Too bad. Did he have a wife?"
"Yes. And two kids too."
"And they never found a trace?"
"Nothing. And of course even Mr. Kincaid said it would be unlikely that they would ever find the body. You know, with all the bears and wolves and things-"
"True. They'd make short work of any meat lying around."
"So that's the end of the only person I can think of who wasn't fond of Mr. Kincaid."
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Haskell. Oh, where did Mr. Schilling live in California, do you remember?"
"Yes I do. It wasn't that long ago. He lived in Newport Beach. When he lived here, he lived in Marblehead. He loved the water just like Mr. Kincaid. He was never far from it. I think he had a cabin cruiser there too, for deep-sea fishing."
"Ah yes. And he drowned. It's kind of ironic isn't it?"
She thought a minute, then answered that the more a man was on the water, perhaps the greater the chance, in the long run, of his drowning. I had to admit there was logic to what she said.
"Well, was there a storm or anything? Any signs of violence?" Something was beginning to tug at the back of my brain and I wasn't sure what it was.
"No-you mean up on the bear hunt?-no. They think he must have lost his balance and fallen overboard, then hit his head somehow. The shore's very rocky up there I've heard, you know, 'boulder strewn' like it is here."
"Was any of his gear found? His rifle?"
"You know, I don't remember."
"Sure. It was a while ago. Uh, when exactly was it-do you think you could pin it down a bit?"
She recollected that it was just before the holidays-between Thanksgiving and Christmastime 1978. Since it was now September 1979, that meant Jim Schilling had died about a year ago. I asked Mrs. Haskell if she'd seen any newspaper account of Schilling's disappearance. She replied that she hadn't, that to her knowledge it wasn't even carried in New England papers. And of course since he had been forced out of Wheel-Lock any open talk and speculation about the incident was discouraged-if not absolutely verboten-by Walter Kincaid.
After another ten minutes of chitchat with Mrs. Haskell, during which time I was presented with a brochure describing the facilities, products, and policies of the Wheel-Lock Corporation, I left.
After an hour's discussion, Mary and I figured out away to sneak up on Mrs. Walter Kincaid.
"It's got to be a name she can't remember later and check up on," I said.
"How about people names-you know, like Smith and Jones?"
"That's good. That's the right track. Let's think up names that'll be impossible to remember?
In ten more minutes, we were ready. Mary dialed the number and I listened in on the extension phone.
Laura Kincaid picked up the phone after three rings. I felt just a tad sneaky doing this, especially after her gracious hospitality and frankness. But there was something gnawing at me I had to find out.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Mrs. Kincaid?"
"Yes. Who's this?"
"Just take a second, Mrs. Kincaid. Trelawney and Hoopes cleaners calling from Boston-you know the uniform people? Listen we've got your three maid's uniforms here and they've been ready for two weeks now and we're wondering when you can have them picked up or we can deliver them to your house but we've found nobody home so I don't know what-"
"Who is this?" Laura Kincaid finally managed to break in-but Mary, as planned, rattled right along without even slowing down.
"Er, hello? Yes, Mrs. Kincaid, the uniform people from Boston and we have your maid's uniforms here-"
"You're mistaken, I don't have a maid-"
"Beg pardon. Mrs. Kincaid? Well you must have gotten rid of her, right? Because we've got these three uniforms-you know the black rayon complete with cap just like you always ordered and we-"
"I'm sorry!" snapped Laura Kincaid irritably. "Now I told you I do not have a maid! I have never had one! Is that clear?"
"Sorry ma'am, you're not Mrs. Kincaid?"
"Yes, but I do not-"
"Mrs. Robert Kincaid, 309 Bullfinch-"
"No. No, you have the wrong Kincaid. Good-bye!"
And a quick ring off, almost a slam.
I went in and told Mary she was perfection. Of course Laura could always look up cleaners, or uniforms, in the Yellow Pages and see there was no Trelawney and Hoopes, but we'd hoped that the name would slip from her mind in the interim or, even more likely, she would assume it was a routine foul-up and pay it no further notice.
"So no maid, Mary. I thought as much. Then who-pray tell me-was that person who opened the front door while Laura Kincaid and I were yakking on the terrace out back, hmmmm?"
"A good question, Charlie. It seems to me that the Kincaid household is fairly well secured. Intercoms and all. Exclusive area. It seems they value their property and privacy and go to great lengths to protect both. It certainly was not a casual stroller. I think she has a boyfriend?
"I agree. It's not a maid. It wouldn't be a lady friend. Why would she give the front door key to a friend? No, it's somebody she's intimate with. Someone she trusts even with the front door key. Yes, a boyfriend. But then why didn't she introduce him to me?"
"Because maybe it's none of your goddamn business."
I had to admit Mary had a point.
"From what you told me earlier, it doesn't seem that her marriage was that hot. Why not have a boyfriend? And now that her husband's dead, why not live with him?"
I nodded.
"But then why-since she was open with me about here so-so marriage-wouldn't she tell me about him?"
"Because maybe it's none of your goddamn business."