Death and Honesty

by Cynthia Riggs

  Willoughby was chewing gum. “How much you skimming off our taxes, Ashpine?” He wiped a wrist across his mouth.

  Oliver looked for something to lean on and finally sat down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t, eh?” Willoughby smiled, lips together.

  Oliver shook his head.

  “You got my sister’s job, right?”

  “Tillie? Tillie is your sister?”

  “Don’t play stupid. You know whose sister she is. You got Tillie’s job after she run off with that guy.”

  “Her job’s not exactly a big deal,” Oliver said bravely. “Not much more than minimum wage.”

  Willoughby laughed. “I got my sister that job as assessors’ clerk. You knew that, right?”

  Oliver studied the faded tattoos. Entwined snakes, he thought.

  “You think I don’t know about the paperwork? About the assessors’ setting-aside account?”

  Oliver didn’t look up. The more he studied the tattoos, the more they looked like snakes. Big, fat snakes.

  “Cat got your tongue, Ashpine?”

  Oliver looked up.

  “You don’t think the assessors leveled with me?”

  Oliver looked down.

  Willoughby went on. “I know about their scam and they know I know. Fact is, they told me. Those three ladies need someone they can trust. Besides me, that is. I told them Tillie was their gal. And she was. Never blabbed a word to anyone. Put aside a nice little nest egg, right?”

  Oliver looked away.

  “Right?”

  Oliver stammered, “I don’t know.”

  Willoughby mimicked him. “You don’t know? I’ll just bet you don’t know. Those three ladies made goddamned sure you knew exactly what you was gettin’ into.” Willoughby thumped his chest with a fist, then folded his arms again and chewed his gum.

  “What do you want?” Oliver watched Willoughby’s jaw.

  “Same deal Tillie and me had.” Willoughby unfolded his arms from the back of the chair and stood up.

  Oliver leaned back as far as he could. “What deal?” The smell of his untouched bacon and eggs, so appetizing only a few minutes ago, now made him queasy.

  “Fifty-fifty cut.” Willoughby smiled.

  “Fifty …” murmured Oliver.

  Willoughby shrugged. “I’m not greedy. Leaves you with a nice piece of change.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard …”

  “Been five months, right?”

  “Right,” agreed Oliver.

  “Tax bills went out this week, right?”

  Oliver nodded.

  Willoughby laughed, exposing stained brown teeth and a small wad of pink chewing gum. “I don’t suppose we need to put anything in writing, do you?”

  Bubble gum. Oliver’s legs had begun to tremble.

  “Gentleman’s agreement, right?” Willoughby thrust out a meaty hand.

  Oliver heard the rooster crow. Bertie, who’d stopped barking, started up again.

  Willoughby frowned and shoved his hand closer. “Right?” he said louder.

  Oliver nodded and stuck out his own damp, limp hand.

  Willoughby squeezed, not hard, but firmly. “That’s my man.” He let go and Oliver’s chair wobbled. “Got to feed Chickee. Nice talkin’ to you. See you around.”

  With that, Willoughby strode to the door, opened it, and slammed it shut behind him.

  The rooster crowed again.

  Oliver scraped his bacon and eggs into the trash. His stomach churned. He staggered into the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, knelt on the floor, and threw up the three cups of coffee he’d drunk a lifetime ago.

  That same morning, Delilah’s closed bedroom curtains blocked out the view of the Elizabeth Islands, Vineyard Sound, the beach, and the activity around her pond. She pushed the curtains aside to let in the morning light, and gave a startled cry.

  “Henry, wake up. It’s almost ten. Something horrible has happened! I should never have let you stay in my room.”

  “Hmmm?” The pink comforter on Delilah’s heart-shaped bed muffled Henry’s voice. “Did you sleep all right?”

  “I shouldn’t have taken those sleeping pills. I overslept and now look what’s happened.”

  “What has?”

  “Get up, Henry. Dozens of people are at the pond.”

  “Dozens of people?” Henry swung his stocky legs over the side of the bed, stretched his arms over his head, yawned hugely, and reached for the terry-cloth robe he’d dropped over the bedpost in his haste last night.

  “Did you hear me? Henry!”

  “Coming, Mother.”

  “Mrs. Trumbull and a lot of uniformed policemen.”

  “Police,” mumbled Henry, tying the belt of the robe. He padded over to the window and stood next to Delilah. He tilted his head and briefly rested his chin on her breast. She had clothed herself in a filmy peignoir that was printed with lavender cabbage roses.

  He peered distractedly at the activity around the pond far below them.

  “Where are your glasses, Henry?”

  “Would help, wouldn’t it?” murmured Henry, feeling around on the top of the dresser until he found them.

  “You’d better get back to the guesthouse before someone sees you here.”

  “Right. I’d better.” Henry stopped suddenly. “There’s no reason I should leave.”

  “I’m angry with you, remember?” She glared at him. “I should never have let you in last night. Never.”

  “Ah!” Henry said with a smirk. “Yes. I remember.”

  Delilah turned to the window. “Mrs. Trumbull and some woman in uniform are walking up from the pond. Get away from the window.”

  Henry smiled. “I suppose I’d better get dressed. You still make a fine choir girl.” He stood on tiptoe and kissed Delilah on her chin.

  “Use the door off the deck so you don’t wake up the pilot,” said Delilah, brushing his kiss away.

  Henry bundled up the trousers, shirt, jacket, and underclothes he’d shed last night and tucked them under one arm. He slipped his feet, sockless, into his wingtips and cinched the belt on the terry robe. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” he said. “Ta, ta, Mother.”

  “Stop that mother crap, and tie your shoelaces.”

  Henry smiled again. He tiptoed out of the bedroom, shoelaces trailing, and closed the door gently behind him.

  Darcy was waiting at the back entrance when Victoria and Casey reached the house. “I haven’t informed either Miss Sampson or Reverend True of the drowning, Chief.”

  “What’s the trouble?” Casey asked.

  “It would have been awkward, ma’am.” Darcy didn’t explain. “I’ll see if one of them is available now.”

  Victoria indicated Darcy’s slime-covered trousers that were no longer dripping, but were still slapping wetly against his legs. “You’d better change first.”

  Darcy bowed. “Thank you, Mrs. Trumbull.” He escorted Victoria and Casey into the conservatory and left.

  Victoria avoided the low couch and sat in a wrought-iron garden chair where she could see the pond. The police had circled the area with yellow tape, as if it were a crime scene, not an accident. The body had been zipped into a plastic bag and lifted onto a stretcher. As she watched, four men carried the stretcher up the sloping lawn toward the garage and out of view.

  High heels clicked on the slate floor and Delilah entered the conservatory. “Mrs. Trumbull! What’s going on? What are the police doing here?”

  Casey stood up. “Miss Sampson, I’m Chief O’Neill, West Tisbury Police.”

  Delilah’s hand went to her throat. “What’s happened?”

  “A man’s body was found in your pond, ma’am.”

  “A body?” Delilah flung herself onto the couch.

  “Your chauffeur believes it’s your husband’s pilot.”

  “That can’t be!” Delilah shook her head, and her bright hair swirled.

  “In the case of an una
ttended death,” said Casey in her official voice, “the police are called. At this time, we have no reason to believe his death is anything other than an unfortunate accident.”

  “Why the pilot?” asked Delilah.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Casey.

  “Nobody knew him.” Delilah closed her eyes.

  “Where is your husband now, Miss Sampson?”

  “In the guesthouse. The pilot was staying in the guesthouse, too.”

  “Have you talked to Reverend True this morning?”

  “Talked to … ?” Delilah glanced from the pond to Casey to Victoria to the orchids, and then to the door.

  Casey started to repeat her question. “Miss Sampson, have you spoken …” when Henry entered the conservatory

  “Good morning, Mother.” He went to Delilah and pecked her on the cheek. “Sleep well?”

  “Henry,” said Delilah faintly. “The police …”

  Casey stood and introduced herself.

  Henry ignored her extended hand. “What’s going on?”

  Casey went through the account of a man found dead in the pond.

  “My pilot, you say, Officer?” Henry dropped into the couch next to Delilah, picked up her beringed hand with his chunky one, and patted it absently.

  “Miss Sampson’s chauffeur claimed he met your pilot yesterday for the first time. I understand he was staying in the guesthouse with you, sir.”

  Henry nodded.

  “Did you hear him leave at any time during the night?”

  Henry smiled. “I’m a heavy sleeper.”

  “You didn’t hear him leave the guesthouse, sir?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He squirmed into a better position. “I don’t know the pilot well. Didn’t know him, that is.”

  As Casey questioned Henry, Victoria glanced from Delilah to her husband.

  “He seemed a nice enough fellow,” said Henry.

  “Would you give me his name, sir.” Casey took out her notebook. “I’ll need to notify next of kin.”

  “Of course. Cappy something.” Henry paused. “I think it’s Jessup. Cappy Jessup.”

  Casey looked up. “Your plane and pilot?”

  “The ministry’s plane. The Eye of God ministry.”

  “How did you happen to engage this particular pilot?”

  “My personal assistant did the scheduling.” Henry got up from the couch and jingled the bell on the table. “Coffee for everyone, my dear,” he said when Lee appeared. “And something to go with it. Rolls or coffee cake.”

  “Yes, sir. Will that be all?”

  He lifted his great white eyebrows at Casey. “Care to ask Lee anything?”

  “Later.”

  “That will be all,” said Henry, and Lee left.

  “I’ll need to talk to Darcy,” Casey said, writing something in her notebook.

  “Darcy?” asked Henry. “You mean the chauffeur?”

  “He found the body this morning. Walking the dogs.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “We won’t know until after we get the medical examiner’s report how long the pilot was in the pond.”

  “Several hours, I suppose?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Victoria gazed out of the window down the grassy slope to the pond, scarcely registering Casey’s interrogation of Henry. Victoria thought of the snapping turtles that lived in the pond. One, at least, was two feet long. And Henry and Delilah were covering up something.

  CHAPTER 12

  Mrs. Danvers was about to take her salad out of the Town Hall refrigerator when the glass in the door rattled, announcing that someone had entered. She looked up.

  “Well!” She straightened up when she saw who it was and looked significantly at the clock between the tall windows. “Nice of you to come to work today, Mr. Ashpine.” She peered at the assessors’ clerk, prepared to tell him exactly what she thought of his late hours. And then she looked again. “What happened to you?”

  Oliver was pale. His usually sleek hair was tousled. Behind his thick glasses, his magnified eyes were watery. His natty clothes were awry.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Mrs. Danvers repeated.

  Oliver ignored her and headed toward the boxes that held staff mail.

  “Are you deaf?” Mrs. Danvers turned to face him. “We’ve already gone through your mail. Someone has to answer the complaints. I certainly can’t.”

  Oliver turned away from the mailboxes and headed toward the stairs that led up to his office.

  “If you’re sick, the least you could have done was call.” When he still didn’t answer she added, “I don’t suppose you ever heard of a telephone.”

  Without a word, Oliver stumped up the stairs.

  Mrs. Danvers looked at the clock again, lifted the phone receiver to call one of the selectmen, changed her mind and put the receiver down, picked it up again to call one of the assessors, decided against that, and shoved her chair away from her desk.

  If Oliver was sick, and he certainly looked sick, why did he bother to come in at all? He wasn’t going to accomplish anything, the way he looked. Giving everyone his germs. If he wanted sympathy, he certainly wasn’t going to get it from her.

  Mrs. Danvers removed her salad from the refrigerator, doused it with more dressing than she had intended, and took it back to her desk, where she chewed steadily, grinding the lettuce and celery and carrots into smaller and smaller indigestible particles.

  While Mrs. Danvers was working on her salad, Ocypete and Selena were seated on the porch of the Black Dog Tavern overlooking the harbor. Ocypete checked her watch. “This is the second time she’s been late. Last time …” she didn’t finish.

  “Last time, Lucy was murdered,” Selena said. “Shall we go ahead and order?”

  “We’d better. I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon at two.”

  “I hope it’s not serious? One worries so …”

  “Just a tummy ache,” said Ocypete. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

  “Speaking of doctors, I hope Ellen is all right. Last time it was an emergency medical appointment off Island.”

  “Dental,” Ocypete corrected. “Broke her upper plate.”

  “I’ll have the green salad, darlin’,” Selena said to the waitress who’d appeared with two glasses of water. “With just a bit of house dressing. On the side, please?”

  “Hamburger,” said Ocypete. “Rare. Not pink, red.”

  “Anything to drink?” asked the waitress.

  “Iced tea for me,” said Ocypete.

  “I’ll have the same.”

  They watched the Islander round the jetty and pull into its slip. The waitress brought their orders. Cars and trucks from the ferry drove past. Heavy clouds moved in from the northeast. Ocypete checked her watch. They nattered on about weather, gardens, and summer visitors.

  “What could possibly be keeping her?” Selena asked as they nibbled and chewed. “I don’t understand how she could sleep in that house under the circumstances.”

  “This is just like last time.”

  “In a way, you can’t blame her. I mean, Lucy’s death. But you’d think she’d call.”

  A half-hour passed. The Islander, loaded for the return trip to the mainland, backed out of its slip, rounded the jetty, and disappeared from view.

  Selena forked up the last of her salad and crumpled her paper napkin on the table. “You’d think she’d call.”

  Ocypete checked her cell phone and put it back in her purse. “Perhaps she left messages on our answering machines.”

  “Twice in a row. This isn’t like her at all.”

  “Want to stop by her house?” asked Ocypete.

  “Maybe the killer struck again. The police seem to think he mistook Lucy for Ellen. Why did she insist on sleeping in her house after that?”

  Ocypete dipped the last hunk of hamburger roll into the pool of blood remaining on her plate. “I’ll pick you up after my doctor’s appointment. Let’
s say, four o’clock.”

  Long after the police left with the body bag, Delilah remained seated on the couch. By now it was almost two o’clock, and she was still dressed in her peignoir and high-heeled mules.

  “Henry, I simply can’t understand why the police took Darcy away. Clearly the drowning was an accident.”

  Henry clasped his hands behind his back and paced. His shoes squeaked on the slate floor.

  “Your pacing is driving me crazy,” said Delilah.

  Henry halted abruptly in front of her. His usually cherubic face was dark with anger. “Who’s Darcy?”

  “My chauffeur, of course.” Delilah stood up so she could look down on Henry and flicked her filmy dressing gown around her in a swirl.

  “Where’d he come from?”

  “The agency in Boston.”

  “What agency?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Henry. What’s your problem?”

  Henry turned his back to her and mumbled something.

  “I didn’t hear you.” She thrust her hands into the pockets of her gown.

  He turned again and they stared at each other until he broke eye contact.

  She pranced over to the orchids and fingered the bark soil. “Dry. You’d better remind Lee to water them.”

  “What agency?” he repeated.

  Delilah brushed the soil off her hands. “The same one that sent Barry to me five years ago. I’ve dealt with them dozens of times.” She walked back to the couch and sank into it with a flutter of purple and green silk. “Barry quit.”

  “What reason did he give?”

  “A family problem. I don’t pry into my staff’s personal business.”

  “Did you call Darcy’s references?”

  “Of course not. The agency takes care of that.” She laid her arm along the back of the couch and looked up at him. “What is the matter with you, Henry?”

  “The matter with me is that your chauffeur killed my pilot, that’s what’s the matter.” Henry turned and squeaked across the floor toward the windows. “Why? And who the hell is Darcy?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Delilah flung herself out of the couch again, brushed past the orchids, and stood beside him, hands on her hips. “Who I hire as my chauffeur is my business. And my chauffeur is no killer.”