Oak Bluffs

By Alice Levine

This is the story of Abbe, a summer reporter at the picturesque village of Oak Bluffs in Martha’s Vineyard and Matt, the Police Chief. They find themselves involved in the disappearance of a young couple, a drowning, and a criminal invasion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664180956

Alice Levine

Author Bio coming soon.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Alice Levine.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/29/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Dedicated to my children

Judith

Jean

Laban

Susan

Sol

And to my beloved Bert

CHAPTER ONE

Abbe hopped out of a bright yellow dune buggy driven by a disappointed young man in bathing trunks and beard. His gaze followed her long tanned legs up Circuit Avenue in Oak Bluffs. Nearing the Lamppost Bar in this unsophisticated corner of Martha’s Vineyard, Abbe glanced at the loungers on the steps, including one rumpled brown dog, two long-haired boys with back packs, and several rough looking men in jeans.

A uniformed policeman pushed crisply through the group, reaching the bottom step just as Abbe approached. For an instant she paused, her steady brown eyes uncertain. Excuse me, Officer, she began. Can you direct me to Pequot Avenue? I was hitching up the ocean road and missed it somehow.

His eyes rested briefly on her face, shiny without makeup in its frame of shoulder-length brown hair. The signs for Pequot are missing, and hitchhiking is illegal, he added dryly, as his glance dropped to her snug knit blouse which ended inches above her shorts, revealing more than it covered.

My car is laid up in Vineyard Haven, so how is a poor working girl supposed to do her job? Walk from Edgartown? she snapped, as she flung a woven grass bag over one bare shoulder.

What is your job?

I’m with the Gazette. I have to see the manager of the Pequot House about an ad. Is that illegal too?

His face relaxed into a half smile. I’m sorry, Miss . . . .

Ingram!

Miss Ingram, he repeated. My name is Matt Jennings. I’m the chief of Police in Oak Bluffs.

Chief of Police. My! exclaimed Abbe, with a wide smile, taking mental notes of Matt’s broad dark face, straight black hair and serious mouth.

Let me offer you a ride to Pequot House, Miss Ingram. I happen to be answering a call from there this very minute. I apologize if I was abrupt, he added. I didn’t realize you were here on business, he said as his eyes took in her scanty costume.

The police car stood at the curb. Matt opened the door for Abbe with a steady eye on the interested observers on the steps. They were suddenly silent at the scene being played with their cool young police chief.

Abbe scanned Matt quickly as he slid into the driver’s seat beside her and pulled away from the curb.

Aren’t you kind of young to be a Chief of Police? she began.

I had plenty of experience, he muttered as he drove up Circuit Ave. I was an MP in Nam, he explained.

I see. You say your name is Matt. Is that short for Matthew?

Matthew was the name of my father’s commanding officer in World War II. he explained as he drove the car around the corner into a tree-lined street with comfortable looking cottages with generous porches.

My name is really Abigail. It was my mother’s name and her mother’s name too. You may call me Abbe. She laughed. When I have my children I’m going to give them names like Jim, Mary, and Betty," she added emphatically.

Matt smiled. You may feel differently when that time comes. Here’s Pequot House, he announced. He stopped under a maple tree in front of a corner house with a wide shaded porch. Several old green wicker chairs stood empty except for one sleeping cat. A colorful hand painted sign bearing the name Pequot House was the only indication of the commercial nature of this building. It looked like a roomy summer cottage in every other respect.

Matt helped Abbe out of the car, climbed the porch steps in two easy strides and opened the screen door for Abbe. There was no one at the desk. He tapped a small desk bell on the counter, and a short-haired young woman appeared from behind the French doors. She greeted Matt with a smile.

Thanks for coming over, Matt. She glanced questioningly at Abbe.

Matt explained. This is Miss Ingram from the Gazette. She wants to talk to you about an ad when we’re finished. Uh, Miss Ingram, this is Mrs. Brenda Barreto, the owner of Pequot House. Why don’t you wait here until we’ve had our talk?

Brenda touched Matt’s sleeve and nodded toward a blond woman seated on a chair in the corner. Let’s talk in here, Matt. She opened the French doors leading to a back room, evidently a private apartment. As the doors were closing, Abbe heard Brenda whisper, He’s still missing.

The young woman in the corner did not look up at any of this interchange, but stared silently out the window. Neatly dressed in a white sharkskin slack suit, she had a white overnight bag with gold initials next to her chair.

Abbe looked at the woman thoughtfully, then stepped to the register book open on the counter. She studied it briefly, scribbled quickly in her notebook and stuffed the notebook into her bag. Finally she found a seat facing the door which Matt had used.

Settling herself on the worn leather couch she picked up a magazine from the table. It was last month’s issue of New England Antiques and bore the caption Oak Bluffs Gingerbread over the photo of a Victorian cottage whose owner’s collection of Victoriana was photographed along with memorabilia of Oak Bluffs. Scanning the article quickly, Abbe finished it just as Matt and Brenda stepped through the French doors.

Brenda approached Abbe with a pleasant crooked smile. Now we can discuss our business, Miss Ingram. Turning to Matt she motioned toward the silent woman in the corner. Chief Jennings, why don’t you and Mrs. Waters chat in my apartment? No one will disturb you there.

At this, the young woman raised her head and revealed eyes swollen from crying. Rising stiffly from her chair she walked to the door without looking to either side, brushing aside Matt’s offered hand. He said nothing, but followed her into the other room. If he noticed her defiant gesture he made no indication of it.

Brenda turned to Abbe, and her eyes fell on the magazine in Abbe’s hand. I understand that article is all about the Rose house. Mrs. Rose has one of the prettiest cottages on Pequot Avenue, and she collects antiques from Oak Bluffs. I’ve been too busy to read it myself.

Excuse me, Mrs. Barreto, but aren’t you the Brenda Barreto who had an exhibit at Walden University this winter at the surrealism show?

Brenda looked at her in pleased surprise. Yes, I am. In the summer I’m the chambermaid and scrubwoman at the Pequot House. In other words, the owner! she exclaimed. But how did you know about my show?

I wrote the copy for the ads in the catalog. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed your work. But that’s not why I’m here today. You’re scheduled for a quarter page ad in the Gazette and I want your OK on the copy. Say, what’s going on here?’ whispered Abbe. Is one of your guests missing?"

Mrs. Baretto is not planning to discuss it with you, Matt called roughly across the room. If you want a lift to vineyard Haven, finish your business here, growled Matt as he left the other room. I’ll wait for you outside, but don’t be too long.

At this Abbe and Brenda looked at each other and grinned. He’s something else, whispered Abbe.

He’s special all right, Brenda agreed.

Abbe handed a paper to Brenda and waited while Brenda carefully perused the ad she had written. As Abbe waited she scanned the room, her eyes falling on an ornate box on Brenda’s table. She was about to examine it when Brenda called out. It looks fine. Please bill me. Nice meeting you. You’d better not keep Matt waiting.

Abbe thanked her and left quickly. Rushing to the car, she found Matt on the porch, fondling the cat. I see you have friends everywhere, said Abbe playfully.

He placed the cat gently on a step and got in his car. Never know when you’ll need a friend.

I’m glad you have such a variety of friends, Abbe responded. I’m beginning to think I misjudged you, said Abbe. I think you’re really a softie. Despite that angry display inside. I understand you’re concerned about my work on the Gazette. I have no intention of interfering with Mrs. Waters’ problem, whatever it is. Much less, writing about it.

Matt gave her a sidelong glance. Thank you for that. I guess I misjudged you too. You’re not just any girl looking for a ride. They laughed. Well, you will not tell anyone what you heard just now, but it is obvious that Mrs. Waters is anxious about her husband.

Does this kind of thing often happen here?

I wouldn’t say often. Usually someone’s cat is up a tree and can’t get down.

Abbe laughed. So your work here is a piece of cake.

Matt didn’t answer but his face was suddenly grim.

CHAPTER TWO

Matt had barely started the police car down Pequot Avenue when a slim, white-haired woman hailed him from her porch two blocks away. It was Mrs. Sallie Perkins, hostess for forty years at her Pequot rooming house. Since her husband’s death ten years ago, she had stopped operating it and now spent her time keeping her cottage neat. Her scrub brush was bobbing around now