She crossed the small shell-paved parking space in front of the police station, nudged a duck out of the way with her stick, and climbed the steps into the tiny building. Behind her, a chorus of ducks and geese clamored to be fed.
Casey was standing behind her desk. Sunlight glinted on her coppery hair. The usually quiet police radio blasted out intense voices and static.
“Good morning.” Victoria shucked off her coat and settled into her wooden armchair with a sigh. She’d walked too briskly. “Any developments in the Lucy Pease murder case?”
“The forensic team came, did their thing, and left,” said Casey. “The state police are questioning neighbors.”
“They got my statement.”
“I know.” Casey reached for her gun belt and buckled it around her waist. “Your timing is uncanny, Victoria.”
Junior Norton adjusted the squelch on the radio. “Morning, Miz Trumbull.”
“What’s going on?”
“Ten minutes ago, Miss Sampson’s chauffeur called the communications center,” said Junior. “He found a body in her pond.”
“Good heavens. Another death. Who?”
“Male. That’s all we know at this point.”
Victoria felt a twinge of alarm. She found her baseball cap in her bag and set it on her head. Gold stitching read, “West Tisbury Police, Deputy.”
Junior pushed his chair back, stood up with a grin, and saluted her.
“Let’s go, Victoria.” Casey turned to Junior, who’d seated himself again. He wrote something as he listened to the radio. “Don’t forget to shut the door when you leave. Keep the critters out.”
Junior lifted a hand in acknowledgment.
Victoria climbed into her seat in the police Bronco and they headed for Delilah Sampson’s.
“I’ll be retired before the selectmen approve a lock for the door,” Casey remarked. “Fasten your seat belt, Victoria.”
Victoria found the buckle and complied. “Our police station is a public building.”
“I have confidential stuff in there.”
Victoria’s chin jutted out. “The public has a right to know. You’re paid with the public’s tax money.”
Casey quickly changed the subject. “I understand you’ve signed up for the Vineyard Haven Police Academy.”
“How did you learn that?”
“As you keep telling me, ‘You can’t keep secrets on the Island.’”
“You’d promised to send me to the police academy. The Vineyard Haven chief signed me up first.” Victoria looked straight ahead, her eagle’s beak nose lifted.
She was silent until Casey passed the mill pond. “I was at Delilah Sampson’s yesterday,” she said suddenly.
Casey glanced at her. “How come you didn’t tell me before?”
“I walked to the police station to tell you.”
They didn’t speak again until Casey steered around Dead Man’s Curve. “What were you doing at Miss Sampson’s?”
“She invited me.” Victoria continued to look ahead.
“I had no idea you knew the woman.”
“She came by my house yesterday, upset with the assessment on her property. She wanted my help.”
“Sheesh! What did she think you could do?”
“Evidently, she thought I could do quite a bit.” Victoria lifted her chin.
“Sorry I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Her chauffeur drove me to Town Hall, and I discussed the assessment with the clerk.”
“Who gave you a lot of grief, I suppose.”
“It looks as though Oliver Ashpine and the assessors have concocted a scheme.”
“Yeah?”
“There are three different tax bills for Miss Sampson’s property based on three different assessments.”
“The same property?”
“Yes. I made copies of all three.”
“How’d you get them?”
“The Freedom of Information Act. I searched through a file drawer when Mr. Ashpine stepped away from his desk.”
“Victoria …”
“Last night I went over all the bills for her property. One bill clearly was prepared for the town’s records and showed the money the town would receive in taxes. The second bill was much higher, and the third was even higher. That was the bill that upset Miss Sampson.”
Casey bore left onto North Road at the great split oak. Tiny pink buds covered the branches of the old tree, saved by volunteer arborists after an autumn gale tore the tree in half.
They drove between the granite posts that marked the way to Delilah Sampson’s, and Victoria thought about Darcy finding the body in the pond. Just what was Darcy doing here? He certainly didn’t need the chauffeur’s job. The Bronco bounced along the track to the fork in the road, where she’d remembered that he was actually Emery Meyer, fellow lover of Robert Frost’s poetry. Or was he? Would his next alias be as Mr. Eye? That would be appropriate, since Henry’s ministry was with The Eye of God.
They jounced over a tree root, and Victoria braced herself. “The road is much smoother when one is in a limousine.”
“Maybe the selectmen will order one for me, along with a new door key.”
“Left, here,” said Victoria.
“Anything else you can tell me before we get there?”
“The Reverend True had to go off Island yesterday morning to a meeting. He returned the same day. The chauffeur met him and his pilot at the airport.”
“Who’s Reverend True?”
“Delilah Sampson’s husband.”
“Where’d he fly in from?”
“Boston. I gather the plane is owned by his church.”
They drove between another set of granite posts that bounded a stone wall onto the Belgian block drive, circled in front of Delilah’s house with its grand entrance stairway, passed the guest cottage, and parked in front of the four-car garage. Casey helped Victoria out of the passenger seat, and together they walked down the long grassy slope. Darcy was squatting on the ground well away from a body that lay facedown near the pond.
As they approached, Victoria could see that Darcy’s trousers and shirt were wet. Strands of pondweed clung to him. The body, clad in a dark windbreaker and dark slacks, lay on the grassy edge of the pond with his feet still in the water. Occasional wavelets shifted the untied shoelaces of one shoe. The loose ends writhed like young eels. The man’s head was turned away from her, and Victoria couldn’t see his face.
Casey glanced at the body, then at Darcy, who stood up. “You’re the chauffeur, sir?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Casey O’Neill, West Tisbury’s police chief.” She took out her notebook and pen. “Your name, sir?”
Darcy glanced at Victoria before he answered, and she nodded. “Remey,” he said. “Darcy Remey.”
“You shouldn’t have moved the body.”
“There was a chance he might still be alive, ma’am.”
“Any idea who he is?”
“Reverend True’s pilot, I believe.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“I met him yesterday afternoon.”
“You know his name?”
“Miss Sampson’s husband, Reverend True, introduced him as Cappy Jessup.”
Victoria leaned on her stick to examine the body more closely, then straightened up. “Could he have fallen into the pond by accident?” The man was Darcy’s size, slim, with short hair, so muddy she couldn’t tell its color.
Darcy said nothing.
Victoria looked around at the overgrown edges of the pond. “He may have banged his head on an overhanging branch.”
“How’d you happen to find him, Mr. Remey?” asked Casey.
“Walking Mrs. Sampson’s poodles, ma’am. One of the dogs found him.”
“Where was the body?”
“Far side of the pond.” Darcy pointed. “Facedown among the reeds.”
“You carried him from there to here?”
Da
rcy looked down at his wet clothes. “Towed him by the collar.”
“When you realized he was dead, you should have left him where you found him instead of dragging him all the way to this side.”
“A large snapping turtle was feeding …”
“Okay, okay,” said Casey.
“Not much left of his face.”
Casey shook her head. “Where are the dogs now?”
“Back at the house.”
“Does Miss Sampson know about this?” Victoria asked.
“I returned to the house with the dogs, shut them in their room, and called the communications center. It was a little before seven. Miss Sampson doesn’t usually come down for breakfast that early. I then returned here and stayed with the body.”
“And Mr. Sampson?”
“Reverend True,” said Darcy. “Reverend True had been quartered in the guesthouse with the pilot.”
“Wake them up, all of them,” Casey ordered. “Tell them to wait in the house until I get there.”
“The conservatory, ma’am?”
“Fine. The state police are on the way.”
Darcy started back up the slope to the house, wet trousers slapping against his legs, shoes squelching.
Victoria watched him stride up the lawn. Ahead of him she could see the flashing blue lights of police vehicles and the line of tiny blinking blue lights with which Doc Jeffers had crowned his motorcycle helmet.
“Darcy seems familiar,” said Casey, “but I can’t place him. Do you know anything about the pilot, Victoria?”
“No,” said Victoria. “Nothing at all.”
CHAPTER 10
While the state police marked off an area around Delilah Sampson’s pond and strung yellow tape around the scene of an unattended death, Oliver Ashpine was wondering how he could deal with the three assessors. He filled Bertie’s bowl with Alpo and set it out in the fenced yard, and then began to fix his own breakfast. What could he do?
He poured himself a third cup of coffee. Almost eight o’clock. He slapped a rasher of bacon into the cast-iron pan and broke two eggs on top.
Those harpies. Humiliating him like that. With the Alley’s porch loafers watching. What kind of warped constitutions did those women have, meeting in that house of death? You’d think they’d show respect for the dead.
Next door the rooster crowed, and that started Bertie barking. The rooster crowed day and night. The racket had kept him awake most of the night. He could sympathize with Jordan Rivers, who lived across the lane from the Willoughbys. Rivers had complained to the police about the rooster, and, of course, the police did nothing. All Rivers accomplished was to make an enemy out of Willoughby. In no way did Oliver intend to antagonize Willoughby, who had some kind of pull with the assessors.
How was he going to defuse this goddamned situation? He’d lain awake listening to that rooster, trying to decide what to do. Three against one, and together they had decades of so-called service to their goddamned beloved town, and here he was, a newcomer. Not a newcomer to the Island, but a newcomer to this snobby town that called itself “the Athens of Martha’s Vineyard.” Pfaugh!
He added cream and no-cal sweetener to his coffee and stirred it, then flipped the bacon and eggs. What could he do? He peered out of the kitchen window at the scrub oaks that showed a faint haze of pink. Bertie had finished his dog food and was digging a hole near the fence.
Oliver’s house was at the end of Simon Look Road, one of the new developments off Old County Road. Desolate goddamned place. Only three houses along the road were year-round, his and the Willoughby’s next door and Rivers’s across from the Willoughby’s. Complaints about the rooster weren’t going to get Rivers anywhere. Willoughby had worked for the town for years. So had his sister, Tillie, whose job Oliver now had.
The rest of the houses on Simon Look Road were summer rentals. Come July, party, party, party. He wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. Someday, when he had money, he’d move out of this slum. Money, money, money. Always money.
A car went by on Old County Road. The rooster crowed.
He knew what would happen if he tried to unmask those three assessors. Suppose he reported to the selectmen, or stood up in Town Meeting and said the assessors were removing property cards from Town Hall in defiance of state law? And suppose he said they were altering property cards, punishable by a jail term? He smiled at the thought. And suppose he said they were overbilling selective property owners, embezzling funds, and squirreling away townspeople’s money in a private account? What would happen? The town would laugh it off, a simple mistake made by three dear old ladies.
He paced to the coffeepot, then realized he still had a full mug. He turned off the heat under the frying pan, slid the bacon and eggs onto a plate, and returned to his seat.
Townspeople would say the assessors had served the town for long and dedicated years. At worst, the confused accounting would be chalked up to approaching senility. The old biddies could always fall back on that.
He picked up his pencil, then tossed it down again.
Who’d get in trouble? He would. That militaristic bitch Ellen would get all self-righteous, and show that he, Oliver Ashpine, was the one skimming money from the town’s taxes, and he’d end up his days rotting in a dingy state prison.
Ellen Meadows was the problem. Too bad the neighbor was killed instead of her. He could deal with the other two. Selena, the lightweight, and Ocypete, drifting off on some cloudy remembrance of protest marches past.
A preemptive strike, that was what he would have to do. He moved his chair closer to the kitchen table with his full plate and coffee mug near at hand and a pencil and paper to plan his preemptive strike, then the phone rang. Early for anyone to call. Not yet eight.
“Ashpine here.”
He grinned when he heard the voice on the other end.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “Yes, of course. It occurred to me …
“Yes, yes …” he said.
“Certainly, but …” the caller wasn’t letting him get a word in.
“Well …” Oliver tapped his pencil on his preemptive strike notes, making small dots.
“Just let me …” He listened for a long time, then slammed the phone into the cradle. “Goddamn!” he said out loud. “Hung up on me.”
Somewhat rattled, he stood up, stared out of the window at Bertie, who’d given up his digging and was chasing his stubby tail, and sat down again. He was trying to rekindle enthusiasm for his preemptive strike when Bertie started yapping. There was a knock on the back door.
“Come in,” he called out, surprised. No one ever visited him, certainly not before eight on a weekday morning. Not UPS or FedEx. Not this time of day.
The door opened and he turned to face his caller.
The rooster crowed. Bertie continued to bark.
Oliver stood and his napkin dropped on the floor. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” said Oliver.
On the North Shore, police cruisers from four Island towns, the state police vehicle, the Tri-Town Ambulance, and Doc Jeffers’s Harley were parked by Delilah Sampson’s garage, and a group of law enforcement officers gathered around the pond and the defaced victim.
At the last house on Simon Look Lane, Oliver Ashpine’s unexpected caller seated himself across from Oliver.
Ellen Meadows had spent a sleepless night wondering what the police had learned about Lucy’s killer, and thought how stupid she’d been to insist on sleeping in her own house. It must have seemed strange to townspeople.
At Town Hall, Mrs. Danvers, the town’s executive secretary, was opening yesterday’s mail. She was tall and lean, almost cadaverous. Her slim tan jeans and shirt with vertical yellow stripes made her look taller and slimmer.
Dale Fender, the selectman who’d ousted Lucretia “Noodles” Woods in the last election, had come into Town Hall early to clear up some paperwork, and was sitting at the big oak table. He and his wife had celebrated their fortieth anniversary day befo
re yesterday, and his wife had assured him that he was mature, responsible, conscientious, and in charge, and that was the way he felt this morning.
“Another one,” said Mrs. Danvers, slapping a letter with the back of her hand. “This is the fifth complaint we’ve gotten this week about the tax bills.” She got up from her desk with the letter and slid it across the table.
“Where’s Oliver?” Dale asked. “This is his job.”
“Oliver is late again. He’s worse than Tillie.”
“Who’s the complaint from this time?”
“Mrs. Summerville, as usual. She hasn’t received her tax bill.” Mrs. Danvers’s glasses had slipped down her nose, and she pushed them back.
Dale sighed.
“Oliver’s got to go,” said Mrs. Danvers. “I can’t spend all my days fielding complaints about his job.”
“We can’t get rid of him,” said Dale. “He’s Denny’s wife’s cousin. Did he call in sick?”
“Not a word from him.” Mrs. Danvers peered over the top of her glasses. “And as you rightly know, this isn’t the first time he’s pulled this.”
“Did you call his house?”
“Got the answering machine.” Mrs. Danvers tugged a pencil from behind her ear where she’d stashed it, and dropped into her chair. “He’s probably gone fishing. Everyone on the Island seems to think that’s a legitimate excuse. Fishing.”
Dale shook his head and the strand of hair he’d combed over the balding spot unstuck itself. He smoothed it back into place. “Not Oliver. He hates the out-of-doors.” Dale picked up the letter, read it, and held out his hand. “Give me the rest of those complaints, and I’ll get my wife to answer them.”
CHAPTER 11
“What’s the idea of hanging up on me?” Oliver stood, fists clenched on his hips, and looked up. “What do you want now, Willoughby?”
Standing, Lambert Willoughby loomed over Oliver. He strode over to a chair, turned it around, and sat with his arms crossed over the back. Seated, he was almost at eye level, even with Oliver standing. Despite the chill morning, he wore a thin T-shirt tucked into soiled jeans. His bulky arms were covered with tattoos, faded with age to a bleary red and pale blue.
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