Death and Honesty

by Cynthia Riggs

  Henry stared up at her. His thick glasses reflected her face. His trim white mustache was slightly askew. “This Darcy person has been here for, what, a week? Two weeks?”

  “You’re being overly dramatic, as usual. Your pilot fell into the pond by accident.” She spoke each word distinctly.

  “At the airport, your Darcy and my pilot recognized each other. Why? How did they know each other?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I could tell. Where had they known each other?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” Below them the yellow police tape fluttered in the light midday breeze. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for lunch. Ring Lee, will you, darling?”

  “Even if you’d done the sensible thing, checked references, I suppose everything would have been in order. Who is he? Who does he work for?”

  “He’s an excellent driver. Ring Lee. Or shall I?”

  “Of course he would be an excellent driver. And he probably speaks four or five languages and has a degree in killing people.” Henry pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. “FBI? CIA? Mafia? Independent? Who, who, who?”

  “You left out Homeland Security. Henry, darling, why would he want to kill your pilot?” She bent over, picked up the bell, and rang it vigorously.

  “Damned if I know.”

  “He wasn’t your usual pilot, was he?”

  “I’ve flown with him a few times.”

  “What happened to your usual pilot?”

  “Yes, ma’am?” Lee had appeared without a sound.

  “Sandwiches, please, Lee. And something to drink. White wine.”

  Lee bowed her head and left.

  Henry waited until she was out of hearing. “My usual pilot had a family emergency.”

  “A family emergency? Naturally.” She set her hands on her hips and laughed, then strode the length of the orchids and back. Her peignoir brushed a spray of small brown and yellow blossoms and set it in motion. “According to your fantasy, Darcy and the pilot are probably hired killers. Who are they after? Tell me that. You? Or me?” Delilah stopped her own pacing abruptly. “That pilot could have killed you at any time. Why wait until you got back to the Island?” She resumed her pacing. “On the other hand, if he was here to kill me … !” She pointed at her ample bosom.

  “Your luncheon, ma’am.”

  Delilah whirled around. “You startled me, Lee. Knock before you enter, will you?”

  “Yes, ma‘am. I’m sorry.” Lee set down a tray with a plate of sandwiches and glasses of wine. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

  “Leave Mr. Sampson and me alone and shut the door.”

  “My name is True. The Reverend True.”

  Lee bowed and shut the door firmly behind her.

  “You were saying, as we were interrupted, ‘he was here to kill me.’” Henry’s parted lips were moist beneath his mustache. “Your girl now has that nice tidbit to spread around the Island.”

  Victoria had finished her lunch and was working on her column when the phone rang. “Mrs. Trumbull? This is Darcy.”

  Victoria held the phone close to her ear. “Where are you?”

  “In jail.”

  “What!?”

  “The Dukes County House of Correction. I need help.”

  Victoria looked at her watch. “I’ll be there within a half hour.”

  She gathered up her cloth bag, checked to make sure her blue hat with gold stitching was inside, shrugged into her padded blue coat, fetched her stick from beside the entry door, and strode around to the front of her house. The elegant front door with its Sandwich Glass panes was used only for grand occasions. It was the only door that was locked, and that because whenever the wind was northeast, the door blew open.

  The sky was overcast and she could smell rain, probably arriving by this evening. She stood far enough back from the road so she wouldn’t be run down by a speeding construction vehicle. To her left, almost as far away as the police station, she could see a blue dump truck approaching. Sunlight glinted on its polished hood. She stepped forward and stuck out her thumb. The cobalt blue truck slowed and stopped. The driver, a tall young man with a shock of unruly dark hair, got out, reached into the back of his cab, brought out a box for Victoria to use as a step, and helped her up into the high passenger seat.

  “Thank you,” said Victoria. “You’re Bill O’Malley, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Where are you headed, Mrs. Trumbull?”

  “To the jail,” said Victoria.

  “Visiting a friend?”

  “I’m not sure who I’m visiting,” said Victoria, avoiding his eyes.

  “I have to make a quick stop at the airport first, if you don’t mind.”

  Victoria looked around as the truck started up again. “Are you taking the stumps to the airport?”

  “No, ma’am. Just need to stop long enough to get someone’s name, and then we’ll be on our way”

  CHAPTER 13

  After her doctor’s appointment, Ocypete drove directly to Selena’s, a small overly cozy house with most of the furniture slipcovered in chintz. China figurines cluttered the shelves of dark, glass-fronted bookcases.

  Selena met her at the door. “Let me take your coat, Petey, darlin’.” She glanced at the sky. “Looks like we might have a bit more rain. What did the doctor say?”

  “He thought I might have a virus or a touch of food poisoning.”

  “That raw hamburger you ate …” said Selena.

  “I’ve had this since the day before yesterday I’m supposed to go back in a couple of days if I don’t feel better. He’s put me on a bland diet.”

  Selena glanced toward the kitchen. “I hear my phone. Please, make yourself comfortable.” She wiggled her fingers. “Be right back!”

  A few minutes later she returned, looking puzzled. “That was strange.”

  Ocypete was seated in one of the easy chairs. The shiny crimson peonies of the slipcover clashed with her tie-dyed layers of magenta and orange gauze. “Who was it?” she asked.

  “Ellen. Apologizing. She claims she doesn’t feel well and forgot our luncheon date.”

  Ocypete sighed. “I called her before I left the house to confirm.”

  “So you said.” Selena looked troubled. “You can’t blame Ellen for being disoriented, with all that’s going on, Lucy killed in her house, but …” Selena perched on the sofa. “She did say she was ill.”

  “That came on suddenly,” Ocypete said. “She was entirely herself yesterday. In full control, as usual.”

  “The way she handled Oliver!” Selena drawled.

  They both laughed.

  “I almost felt sorry for Oliver,” said Ocypete.

  “Maybe Ellen’s having a delayed reaction. Do you have time for a cup of tea?” Selena stood up again.

  “That might help settle my stomach. I’m glad we don’t think we need to check on Ellen after all.”

  At Town Hall, Oliver switched on his computer. The session with Willoughby this morning had drained him. He felt just as bad as he looked, but before he left for the day, he had to encrypt a large number of files. Either that or copy and destroy them. Those files were valuable and dangerous. No one, absolutely no one, could be allowed access to those files. He must get them copied today.

  Several times during the afternoon he left what he considered his office on the second floor of Town Hall and walked to Alley’s store. He’d bought a Boston Globe one time, a package of peanut butter crackers the next, a Diet Coke, a copy of the Island Enquirer. He needed to calm down after this morning’s encounter and at the same time see what was happening at the Meadows house across the road.

  “You should make a list, Mr. Ashpine, save yourself a few trips,” said the lanky boy who waited on him. “Going to have more rain. You can smell it in the air.”

  “We’ve had enough rain,” growled Oliver, as though the weather was the boy’s fault.

  From Alley’s porch, everything a
t the Meadows house looked the same as it had all day No one seemed to be around. Ellen’s car was not in its usual place under the linden tree. The front window was still open, held up by a wooden stick he could see from here. The breeze that presaged rain billowed the sheer curtains into the room, then an errant current swept them out again, and he could hear the fluttering sound they made in the growing wind. Someone ought to shut that window before the rain came. Although, actually, why should he care?

  The sheriff met Victoria at the jail in Edgartown, in what was once the front hall of an elegant captain’s house. Victoria knew the sheriff only by sight. But he looked like one of the Nortons, and was probably a cousin of hers.

  “Mrs. Trumbull, I’m Tom Look, a great admirer of your poetry.”

  “Julia Norton’s eldest son?”

  “The youngest. Walter, John, then me.” Sheriff Look’s beaklike nose was almost as fine as Victoria’s own. They shook hands.

  He produced a clipboard with a sheaf of paperwork for her to fill out. “Sorry about the formalities, Mrs. Trumbull,” he said. “Times have changed.”

  “That’s quite all right. I understand.”

  “Mr. Remey is waiting for you upstairs in the conference room. You need help on those stairs?”

  Victoria adjusted her baseball cap. “No, thank you.” She stood up, looked toward the top of the steep wooden stairs, and started up. Halfway up, she stopped to catch her breath.

  “You okay, Mrs. Trumbull?” Cousin Sheriff Look, right behind her, sounded concerned.

  “Certainly.” Victoria pointed at some ornate carving. “This looks like the original stairway.”

  “Somewhat the worse for wear. The building dates from around the 1870s and I guess the stairway does, too.”

  Once she’d caught her breath, Victoria continued up the stairs to the top, where a uniformed guard, a teenager with cropped red hair and freckles, stood by an open door. The door led into a dreary room almost completely taken up by a scarred wooden table, where Darcy sat facing her, his back to the barred window. He stood when she entered.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Remey alone,” Victoria said.

  The sheriff checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes enough for you, Mrs. Trumbull? Richie will stay outside where he can see you, but he won’t be close enough to hear you.”

  Victoria looked at Darcy, who nodded.

  She seated herself at the narrow end of the table close to Darcy and with her back to the guard, and unbuttoned her blue coat. “How can I help?”

  Darcy’s eyes had dark shadows under them. He was still wearing the clothing he’d changed into this morning, not his chauffeur’s uniform, but jeans and a plaid shirt. He tapped his fingers nervously on the table and glanced at the writing on Victoria’s hat. The corners of his mouth twitched and he stopped tapping.

  “I had nothing to do with the pilot’s death, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  “I didn’t think for a moment that you did.”

  “I’m in one hell of an awkward situation. Someone’s framing me.”

  Victoria waited, hands clasped on the table. Darcy began to tap his fingers again. He looked up at the ceiling, where a large fly bumbled against the caged bare lightbulb, then down at the dirty, scarred table. He reached into the pocket of his plaid shirt and brought out a torn sheet of lined yellow paper with a phone number. “There’s no one else I can trust, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  Victoria smiled.

  He handed the paper to her. “Please call this number. Identify yourself to whoever answers and say you’re calling for me.”

  “Who shall I say you are?”

  “Emery Meyer. They’ll know who you mean.”

  “And then what?”

  “Tell them Frank Morris is dead.”

  Victoria sat forward. “Who?”

  “You don’t want to know. Tell them I’m in jail, suspected of killing him.”

  “The pilot.” Victoria sat back again. “Do I need to know what this is all about?”

  “You’re better off not knowing. But you’ll be saving my neck by calling. Don’t lose that.” He indicated the slip of paper. “And don’t let anyone else see it.”

  “I’ll memorize it, tear up the paper, and swallow the pieces.”

  “That’s my girl!”

  “May I ask who you’re working for?”

  “You certainly may ask, Mrs. Trumbull. But I won’t answer.”

  Victoria got up with a sigh. “Do you know how long you’ll be here?” Her gesture included the entire building.

  “That depends somewhat on your phone call.” Darcy, too, stood up.

  “Is the jail very uncomfortable?”

  He shrugged. “I’m in a cell they cleaned up and painted an ugly shade of pink for a lady lawyer they incarcerated a few years back. Aside from the color, it’s not too bad.”

  “And the food?”

  “You know that French chef who was convicted of drug trafficking?”

  “Howland Atherton is responsible for his being here.”

  “Thank Mr. Atherton for me, will you?” Darcy patted his stomach and looked at his watch. “Two hours to dinner. By the way, don’t, under any circumstances, tell Atherton about the call I asked you to make.”

  Victoria buttoned her coat again. “Call me if you need anything else. Darcy,” she added with a wicked smile.

  He looked down and with his finger traced a section of the graffiti that covered the tabletop. “You know that poem of Robert Frost’s that begins, ‘She is as in a field a silken tent …’?” He looked up, and she nodded. “Well, you’re my silken tent, Mrs. Trumbull. Thank you.”

  Victoria took off her baseball cap and turned away so he couldn’t see her eyes.

  CHAPTER 14

  Each time Oliver came downstairs from his office, Mrs. Danvers lowered her glasses and glared at him, then looked significantly at the clock between the windows. He’d tried to ignore her, but each time he felt his face flush.

  He scheduled his forays to avoid the Alley’s porch sitters, who’d be there shortly after noon, waiting for the mail to be sorted, then reconvene after work to gossip. Oliver was sure they’d seen the way the three assessors had humiliated him. Those porch bums didn’t miss much.

  He returned to his desk and removed the disk from his computer that he’d dumped all but his last few files onto, gathered up some papers he hoped would look important, and went downstairs in as businesslike a manner as he could muster, holding his hand against his stomach, which had begun to ache. He’d have to go home and lie down for a few minutes before he finished dealing with his computer files.

  “Leaving early?” Mrs. Danvers said. “I don’t know why you bothered.”

  “Have to run some errands. I’ll be back.” Oliver lifted the papers he was carrying so she’d notice.

  When he got outside, the rain had started. He dashed for his car, sheltering his head with his papers, slammed the door shut, locked it, and drove slowly past the Meadows house. The window was closed now. He could see a light on in the kitchen. But her car wasn’t in its usual place in the driveway. Who’d been in her house?

  He shuddered when he thought about that grilling by those three women. He didn’t intend to go through that ever again. Treating him like a criminal.

  How could he deal with this, apologize? If so, to whom? Say he’d made a dreadful mistake. He was new at the job, after all. He’d promise to correct the bills he’d sent out. Did he dare add that in correcting his terrible mistake, he’d discovered that someone in the assessors’ office had been skimming off tax money for years? He might come out on top, after all. He smiled at the thought.

  His stomach growled. He’d had no appetite for breakfast. The only food he’d eaten since last night was the peanut butter cheese crackers washed down with Diet Coke and a couple of pieces of Turkish delight someone had left on his desk. The box had been there for a couple of days, but he’d assumed it belonged to someone else and hadn’t opened it. Now that he thought of it,
why would anyone leave candy on his desk? He didn’t care much for sweets, but he’d eaten several pieces without thinking. When he got home, he’d have to put something in his stomach. Chicken soup might settle him.

  The rain was heavy now, driven slantwise by the northeast wind. Too much rain this month. He drove slowly past Brandy Brow, where the road was already flooded, past the mill pond and the mill, and turned left onto Old County Road. He’d be home soon, get a bite to eat. Maybe take a quick nap until it was almost time for Mrs. Danvers to leave, then return to Town Hall with a couple of new computer disks. Those last few files were the most important ones, and he wanted to look at them before he downloaded them onto one of his disks or deleted them.

  The blue dump truck was waiting in front of the jail, engine running, when Victoria came out. By now it was raining steadily. Bill O’Malley set down the milk carton step and helped her aboard.

  “I didn’t intend for you to wait for me.”

  “My pleasure, Mrs. T. How’s your friend?”

  “As well as can be expected. I can’t bear to think of anyone shut up like that.”

  “Home again?”

  “Yes. It’s been a long day.” Victoria tucked her cap into her cloth bag.

  “Would you like some music?” He reached for the knob but waited for Victoria to answer.

  “I’d enjoy that.” Victoria settled back in her seat, only to sit forward again when banjo music poured out of the speakers. “I love banjos.” She tapped her foot to the music. “I’ve always loved banjos.”

  “Monroe, Scruggs, and Flatt,” said Bill with a grin.

  She had no idea who he was talking about. She listened to the swish of windshield wipers, the steady rumble of the engine, and the music of the Blue Grass Boys, and continued to tap her foot.

  The music was so captivating, she didn’t notice that O’Malley had pulled up by her stone steps.