The woman came up the stone steps, holding the railing as if it were a stage prop. She was as tall as Victoria, taller, in fact, with those sandals. Flaming red hair tumbled to her shoulders and her enormous bosom intruded on Victoria’s space.
Victoria stepped back. “May I help you?”
“Mrs. Trumbull?”
“Yes. And you are … ?”
“I’m Delilah Sampson.”
Victoria said nothing.
“I’m sure you’ve seen me on TV? On The Straight and Narrow Path?”
“I don’t have television,” Victoria said, and waited.
“Oh, dear!”
When Victoria still said nothing, the woman added, “I bought the old Hammond place on the North Shore.”
“Of course,” said Victoria. “I understand you had an encounter with one of the assessors the other day. Come in.” She led the way into the kitchen.
“I guess there are no secrets in this town,” Delilah said, and glanced at one of the gray-painted chairs.
“That seat will be a bit cool on the backs of your legs,” said Victoria. “I’ll put a towel down.”
“I’m fine.”
But Victoria could see that the woman was not fine. The problem seemed to be more than legs sticking to a cold seat. Her face was drawn and under her eyes were dark circles. She was older than Victoria had first thought, but Victoria was not good at guessing ages. Maybe forty or fifty. The brilliant hair seemed at odds with her face.
Victoria felt a sudden stir of sympathy. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, please,” and at that, Delilah burst into tears. “Howland Atherton suggested I talk to you, Mrs. Trumbull.”
Victoria ripped a paper towel from the roll under the cupboard and handed it to her. “Howland is a good friend.” She turned on the stove under the kettle to reheat the water, then sat facing Delilah. “How can I help?”
“It’s that dreadful assessor.”
“Ellen Meadows?” Victoria thought of the three women, Ellen, Selena, and Ocypete, the one they called Petey. Then she thought about Ellen arriving home to find her neighbor murdered in her home. That would have to be difficult.
“No, not her. That man. Oliver Ashpine.”
“He’s the assessors’ clerk, not an assessor. I’ve had a problem or two with him myself. He’s not what most people would consider a people person.”
Delilah sniffed. “You heard I got into an argument with that woman who looks like a prison guard?”
“That would be Ellen Meadows. Chair of the assessors. Yes, I did hear about that. Go on.”
“She told me to come back this morning, so I went to Town Hall, like she said, and she wasn’t there.”
“Ellen had an emergency appointment off Island.”
“Well, they told me to return later, so I went back this afternoon. I’ve just come from there.”
“You met with Ellen?” Victoria looked away, not sure Delilah had heard about the body in Ellen’s house.
“She seemed to have something on her mind.”
“Yes,” said Victoria. “She would.”
“When I bought my property, the house was a wreck.”
“It was a historic building, more than two hundred years old. I understand you had it torn down.”
Delilah patted her nose with the paper towel. “Mrs. Trumbull, I want to pay my fair share of taxes. I never even look at the bills. But I don’t want some second-rate assessor taking advantage of me.”
Victoria wondered how Ellen had managed to do any business at all today. “You haven’t explained what the trouble is. The old Hammond place can’t be worth a great deal. It’s rocky old farmland, swampy and overgrown with brambles and locust trees.”
Delilah blotted her eyes, careful not to smear her mascara. “I bought it for two million.”
“Dollars?” Victoria said in astonishment.
“Yes. After I built my house and had the view cleared, the assessed value went up. Doubled from last year.”
“That wasn’t Oliver’s decision,” said Victoria. “The three assessors determine what our properties are worth.”
Delilah didn’t appear to be listening. “The assessment went from the two million I paid to four million after I built my house, then seven the next year, then eleven last year. This year, it’s twenty.”
“Million? Twenty million dollars?” Victoria pushed her chair away from the table. “You can’t be serious!”
“Ms. Meadows gave me a copy of the tax bill she said had been sent. For ninety-two thousand and something.”
“You were billed for ninety-two thousand dollars?”
“But the bill I got in the mail was for over one hundred and two thousand.”
“Good heavens! Well, that can be settled easily. Tell Oliver Ashpine to correct the mistake.”
“You don’t understand, Mrs. Trumbull. The assessment isn’t the only problem.”
“Then what is?”
Delilah dabbed her eyes again. “Howland told me I could trust you.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Victoria.
“He threatened me.”
“Who threatened you?”
“Mr. Ashpine. Oliver.”
“How?”
Delilah held the towel to her eyes. “With my past.”
Victoria stood up, outraged. “Demand that your bill be corrected. He can’t threaten you like that. You have nothing to hide.”
“But I do. Before Henry and I were married—Sampson is my stage name, his name is True—I served,” she twisted the damp paper towel, “as an escort.”
“What’s so terrible about that?”
“For an escort service.”
“Well?”
The sobs were louder now. “Call girl, Mrs. Trumbull. Ten years ago. Actually twenty. I was one of the most exclusive call girls in Minneapolis.” She looked up at Victoria, her eyes magnified by tears.
When Victoria looked puzzled, Delilah said, “Prostitute, Mrs. Trumbull. I was a prostitute.”
“Yes, I know what a call girl is,” said Victoria, sitting down again. “But this is the twenty-first century.”
“When Henry met me, I was singing alto in the church choir. He said he loved how sweet I looked in my red robe and lace collar, and I didn’t want to disappoint him.”
“Where is Henry now?” Victoria asked.
“At my place. He spends most of his time in Zebulon. Church business, you know.”
“Zebulon?”
“West Virginia. He flew in yesterday. He’s staying in the guesthouse.” She hid a smile behind her damp paper towel. “We had a little disagreement he hopes to patch up.”
“Then explain your past to Henry, right now.”
“Henry would never understand. He’s a clergyman.”
“Clergymen accept people’s foibles.”
“Not Henry.” Delilah blotted her nose again. “There’s something else I haven’t told him.” She shifted in the chair, and the backs of her bare legs made a squeaking sound. “I’m filing for divorce. Before that clerk tells Henry about my past career, I’ve got to do something to protect my assets so Henry can’t touch them.”
Victoria didn’t hear the last part of Delilah’s sentence. What registered was the hint of blackmail. “Don’t you dare allow anyone to blackmail you.”
“If Mr. Ashpine tells Henry about me, Henry will take everything I own.”
“Assets from your television career?”
“From two of my ex-husbands. Henry produces my TV program for the church, and naturally, it doesn’t pay what a commercial show would.”
“Surely he can’t take money you’ve inherited.”
“My lawyers say if the divorce goes through before I can protect myself, Henry is entitled to half of everything I own. And if that assessor …”
“Assessors’ clerk,” Victoria corrected.
“ … if that clerk tells Henry about my former career, Henry will make sure the church lawyers wipe
me out.”
“Surely a clergyman wouldn’t do that.”
“Fundamentalist.”
“Oh,” said Victoria. “I suppose the church is opposed to divorce?”
“The church isn’t. He is.” Delilah balled up the soggy paper towel. “When I married him, I didn’t realize what sort of person he is.”
“In what way?”
“When I met him, he flew around in corporate jets and courted me on a huge yacht with captain and crew. It all belonged to the church. He’s on salary. A clergyman’s salary.” Delilah’s mouth turned down and her voice had an edge to it. “He married me for my money, and all the time I thought I was marrying him for his.”
Victoria got up, ripped off another paper towel, and handed it to her.
“Thanks, Mrs. Trumbull. He’s already gone through almost two million dollars of my money.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Three years.”
“He spent two million dollars in only three years?”
“He likes nice things. Clothes.”
Victoria, who got most of her clothing from the Thrift Shop, whistled softly. “What is it that you want from me?”
CHAPTER 4
“I’ve got to put my financial plan in action before Oliver Ashpine talks to Henry,” Delilah continued.
“What sort of financial plan?”
A dazzling smile broke through Delilah’s tears. “A farm.” Her voice shifted down from shrill. “That way I can get an agricultural restriction and lower my assessment.”
“A farm,” Victoria repeated. “What sort of farm?”
“I’m going to raise chickens and goats. And I’m getting a yellow tractor. I tried it out at a Deere store off Island. The man there really was a darling. I’m going to order overalls and a straw hat with a red bandanna.” Delilah swept her mane of bright hair on top of her head and held it there with both arms.
Victoria felt strangely surreal. “What do you know about farming? Chickens? Tractors? Goats?”
“I’ve ordered two dozen baby chicks. They should arrive within the next couple of days.”
“And the goats?”
“Lambert Willoughby is building a goat pen for me. He works at Town Hall, you know.”
“I know who he is.” Victoria looked away. Lambert Willoughby’s mother-in-law was Lucy Pease. His wife must be in shock over her mother’s murder last night.
Delilah apparently didn’t notice Victoria’s distracted look, because she went on. “I’ve ordered six fainting goats from a place in Minnesota called Billy-Goat Bluff.”
“Fainting … what?” said Victoria.
“Goats. They’re this tall.” Delilah held her hand about three feet off the ground. “You can’t believe how cute they are, Mrs. Trumbull. When you say ‘Boo!’ like that, they fall over in a faint with their legs straight up in the air.”
“But …” Victoria said again, and blotted her forehead with a paper napkin she tugged out of her pocket.
“Girls, we have a problem.” Ellen Meadows slipped off her reading glasses and scowled at the two women sitting across from her at her dining room table, Selena Moon and Ocypete Rotch. All three women were well into their seventies, and had served together as town assessors for a combined total of nearly a century.
“We’re so sorry about Lucy,” said Selena in the soft southern drawl she’d affected since high school. She smoothed her pleated gray skirt and plucked at the buttons of her pink sweater. “Such a darlin’ sweet person. What a dreadful thing for you to come home to.”
“Your own house!” Ocypete put her hand up to her breast. “Murdered. I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel.” Ocypete’s layers of chiffon, tie-dyed in pale shades of orange, lavender, and green, quivered at the thought. “Awful. Simply awful.”
“Yes,” Ellen agreed. “Awful. But we have a problem, girls, and we have to deal with it immediately.”
Selena glanced toward the pantry door. “You must be terrified to be in your very own home knowin’ someone was murdered here. Someone you knew!”
“I can’t think about that right now, Selena.” Ellen tapped her pen on the oak tabletop. “As you know, we’ve been setting aside a modest percentage of, you know what, for years. As a result of our being careful, very few taxpayers have complained about the small increases on their tax bills. Very few.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Selena. “Less than one percent.”
None of the three could now recall exactly how the “setting aside” began, but it involved some incorrect paperwork coupled with an accidental overpayment of taxes. The assessors conscientiously opened a separate account for the overpayment, but in their own names. Should a taxpayer question the error, the refund would be available. But a taxpayer never did.
Over the years, a few select taxpayers received erroneously higher bills, and usually paid without question. The overpayment went into the setting-aside account and was ready in case a taxpayer filed a claim for a refund, which rarely happened. By the time the three assessors retired from their respective nine-to-five jobs in the army, the post office, and the bank, the setting-aside account had ballooned into a considerable amount. Enough to supplement their fixed pensions. They invested most of the nest egg in a promising new film company.
“You said we had a problem, Ellen,” said Ocypete.
“I hope the problem isn’t something I did,” drawled Selena. “I worry so …” She patted her blond curls. “I mean, I don’t think we’re greedy, do you-all? I think we’ve been entirely fair.”
“Who’s trying to be fair?” Ocypete flipped the hem of her diaphanous skirt over her broad thighs.
Selena coughed. “Petey dear, I hate to mention this … it’s not that I don’t like perfume … but patchouli, I, well …” She fanned herself with her scented hanky.
“Don’t care much for your scent, either,” snapped Ocypete, tossing her long white hair over her shoulder.
“Girls! Please!” Ellen rapped her knuckles on the table. “Our problem is Oliver.”
The two turned away from each other and looked at Ellen. The property cards from the mottled black-and-white file box that Victoria Trumbull had examined the night before were spread out like a hand of bridge on Ellen’s dining room table.
“I’m afraid Oliver isn’t much of an improvement over Tillie, after all,” said Selena.
Ocypete nodded. “Has anyone ever questioned what happened to Tillie?”
“Villagers assume Tillie ran off with a married man she’d been seeing.” Ellen straightened the pencils in front of her and repeated, “The problem, as I said, is not Tillie, it’s Oliver. He’s triple-dipping.”
“What can you mean?” asked Selena.
“This afternoon I met with Delilah Sampson …”
“Poor Ellen. Coming home to, um, your house and …”
Ellen went on, louder. “Delilah Sampson, as you know, confronted me the day before yesterday, quite upset.”
Selena murmured, “I knew it. I’ve always felt that woman was trouble.”
“I suggested she come to Town Hall this morning when she’d calmed down, but, of course, I had to go off Island.”
“Of course,” from both Selena and Ocypete.
“I’m surprised you met with her this afternoon, considering,” added Ocypete.
Ellen bowed her head and murmured, “Mrs. Danvers in Town Hall evidently hadn’t heard about Lucy’s death, and told Miss Sampson to return this afternoon, when she thought I might be back. Fortunately, I did meet with her. If I hadn’t, we might never have learned about Oliver.”
“What was Miss Sampson’s problem?” Ocypete asked.
“Her property assessment is too high, according to her. Much too high.”
Ocypete gathered up the property cards in front of her, tapped the edges on the table, and dealt them out into tidy stacks again. “Well, of course it is,” she said.
“She does pay rather a lot in taxes,” murmured Selena. �
�I mean, we assessed her property at fifteen million …”
“Don’t forget, we had to add a bit for the setting-aside account.” Ocypete swept her arms out in a gesture that indicated abundance.
Selena quickly put her hanky to her nose again.
“Oh, stop it,” snapped Ocypete.
Selena dropped the hanky. “I don’t think eighteen million is unreasonable for a hundred acres of waterfront property and a rather large house.”
“Rather large!” Ocypete chortled. “Eight bedrooms, five baths, a whirlpool spa, six fireplaces, a movie theater, a koi pond, tennis court, swimming pool …”
“Girls!” Ellen rapped her knuckles on the table again. “Miss Sampson claims we’d assessed her property at twenty million, not the eighteen million we decided upon. Certainly not the fifteen million on the town records.”
Selena and Ocypete stared at her.
“But we didn’t,” said Ocypete finally. “The bill she received from us was something like ninety-two thousand dollars based on our eighteen-million-dollar assessment.”
“That’s right,” agreed Selena. “We visited her property on a rainy day last March. I was wearin’ my Wellies, I recall …”
“Selena!” Ellen barked.
“Go on, Ellen,” said Ocypete. “What about Oliver?”
“I told Miss Sampson to take a seat and went upstairs to check the discrepancy with Oliver. He wasn’t at his desk.”
“He’s supposed to be working,” grumbled Ocypete.
“He does have quite a lot to do,” Selena said, “since he’s both the tax collector and our clerk.” Selena turned to Ellen. “Maybe he stepped out for a minute …”
“We know he’s the tax collector, Selena,” said Ellen. “After Tillie left, we made sure he was appointed tax collector in her place. Surely you haven’t forgotten all the lobbying we did with the selectmen.”
Death and Honesty Page 2