Death and Honesty

by Cynthia Riggs

  Lee shook her head and choked out a sob.

  “I can’t believe a family problem would lead you to trespass in my closet and parade around in my clothing.” Delilah waited. “Well?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “If it weren’t for five months of excellent work, I’d fire you on the spot, you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You give me an explanation now, this minute, or you can pack up your things and leave. Right now.” Delilah stabbed a manicured finger at the granite countertop.

  “Reverend True asked me not to tell you,” Lee blurted.

  “Oh, he did, did he? And what are you not supposed to tell me? And why?”

  Lee extracted a damp handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “He gave me a screen test.”

  Delilah’s eyes opened wide. “Screen test?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What did he give as a reason for not telling me?”

  Lee choked back another sob. “He was afraid to hurt your feelings.”

  “Hurt my feeling? What are you talking about?”

  “He was afraid you’d be … you’d be …”

  “Jealous?” demanded Delilah.

  Lee nodded miserably.

  “Did he tell you what the screen test was for? Certainly not my show?”

  Lee shook her head. “No, ma’am.”

  “Well,” said Delilah. “Well.” She thought a moment. “The church has other shows, but Henry has nothing to do with their programming. Nothing at all. What’s he doing?” She looked at Lee, usually so cool, now anything but. “Tell me this, Lee. Did that mysterious phone call you got the other day have anything to do with the screen test?”

  The young woman nodded.

  “What kind of screen test did he give you?”

  “He wasn’t there, ma’am.”

  “What kind of screen test was it?” Delilah asked. “Where was it.

  “At the Harborside Motel.”

  “What?!”

  Lee looked up. “In the lobby, ma’am. Guests were coming in and out and watching.”

  “I see. And what were you supposed to do?”

  “Walk back and forth, look over my shoulder like a model, smile, sit down on the easy chair in the lobby, and get up again.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Delilah. “I suppose he agreed to pay you?”

  Lee nodded and looked down again.

  “Dare I ask how much? Was it to be by the hour?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Twenty-five dollars an hour.”

  Delilah laughed. “You’re selling your soul cheap, you know. Porn stars get a lot more than that.”

  Lee blushed and looked confused.

  “Are you that naive? You don’t see what you’re getting into?” She turned away from the cringing girl. “Sit down, Lee.”

  Lee pulled up a second barstool to the other side of the granite island, facing Delilah, and sat, winding her damp handkerchief around her hand.

  Delilah leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “Listen, kid. I’ve been through this. Same old, same old. Here, have a tissue. Take two.” She pushed a box of tissues toward Lee, who took one. “That bastard is setting you up. The next screen test is in a motel room, and you walk around in a bathing suit or in your bra and underpants. Once you get used to that, it’s just your panties. Then in the buff. And then …”

  “Stop!” said Lee. “It wasn’t like that at all. Reverend True is a minister!”

  Delilah laughed. “You have a lot to learn.” She paused and looked away. “So do L” She put her elbows on the counter again. “I’m giving you another chance, kid. But you stay away from my husband. And when he invites you for the next screen test, tell him absolutely not. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Had he paid you anything?”

  Lee nodded.

  “How much?”

  “A hundred dollars.”

  “A hundred dollars for a few minutes in front of the camera?” Delilah laughed again. “Pretty tempting. You don’t get that kind of pay from me, right?”

  Lee averted her eyes.

  “Do you want to continue to work here, or not?” Delilah waited. “I’ll take care of moving Reverend True’s things into the guest room. You take the rest of the morning off. And think about it.”

  Lee shredded the tissue she was holding. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Believe me,” said Delilah softly. “I understand.”

  While Ellen and Ocypete were dealing with their latest bout of abdominal distress, Howland paid a call on Victoria. She was at her typewriter, pecking out with two fingers her column for the Island Enquirer.

  She pushed her typewriter aside when she saw him. “Sit down, Howland. I hope you’ve got news for me.”

  “Not sure you can use it in your column, but yes, I’ve got news.” He reached into his green canvas briefcase and brought out a sheaf of paper. “The company that produced Tillie’s DVD is called TruArt Films, registered in Delaware. I got a list of the board of directors and major investors.”

  “Oh?” said Victoria, sitting forward.

  “I traced each member of the board. Several of them are directors of another company called TruArt Productions with bank accounts in Virgin Gorda.”

  “The Virgin Islands?”

  “Yeah,” said Howland. “Ironic.”

  “Go on,” said Victoria. “Coffee, by the way?”

  “I’ll pass. I traced TruArt Films and TruArt Productions still further through a complex of interlocking directorships, and that led me to West Virginia.”

  “I think I know what’s coming.”

  “I’m sure you do. Henry True is the principal stockholder in TruArt Productions.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask what it is they produce.”

  “Porn films. Videos. Big, big industry. Sold over the Internet. Headquartered in Zebulon, West Virginia.”

  “That’s where the Eye of God Ministry is located. Is the church a front for TruArt?”

  “The two aren’t affiliated, as far as I can tell. TruArt is Henry’s venture. Young women like Tillie, girls, really, perform in front of the camera for creepy voyeurs.”

  “Lee,” said Victoria, standing up. “We’ve got to alert her.” An instant later, she recalled something. “Darcy! I wonder if he’s back from Boston? I’ve got to contact him.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Victoria looked for Lee’s cell phone number in the Island directory, but it wasn’t there. She was wondering how to get in touch with the girl without calling Delilah when a car rattled into her drive, an Island car with ragged ends of duct tape fluttering from patched rust spots. Lee’s car. Victoria set down the phone book and went to the door.

  “Mrs. Trumbull?”

  “Lee, you’re just the person I want to talk to. Come in.” She looked closely at the young woman. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Trumbull,” and tears flowed.

  Victoria herded her into the kitchen, ripped off a paper towel, and handed it to her. “Sit down,” she pointed to one of the gray-painted chairs, “and I’ll make tea.”

  Two cups of tea later, Lee had told Victoria about the career in film Reverend True had promised her, and about Delilah’s demand this morning that she stay away from him.

  “Reverend True told me not to tell Miss Sampson about the screen test, but I did. He said she’d be jealous, and he was right.” Lee blew her nose on the damp paper towel. “This is a chance of a lifetime for me. To be a real actress.” She wrung her hands. “It’s my dream come true, and Miss Sampson is going to fire me if I don’t give it up. I should never, never have told her.”

  “What exactly did Miss Sampson say to you?”

  “I don’t even want to tell you, Mrs. Trumbull. It’s embarrassing. I didn’t realize what kind of mind she has.”

  “She told you Reverend True is making pornographic films, is that it?”

  “Did she t
ell you the same story?”

  “She didn’t need to,” said Victoria. “I doubt if she knew he was producing films other than his religious ones until she talked to you.”

  “But …”

  “Do you know how to make a computer play a DVD?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come upstairs with me to the study. I want you to see the first few minutes of a movie of Tillie Willoughby. As you know, I found her body. She’d been strangled.”

  “She was my best friend,” said Lee softly. “I was so angry with her. And all the time …”

  They were partway up the stairs when Victoria stopped abruptly.

  “What is it, Mrs. Trumbull?”

  “I have to make a phone call downstairs. The DVD is on the desk next to Elizabeth’s computer.”

  Victoria returned to the cookroom, found Darcy’s cell phone number on a slip of paper in her phone book, and dialed. A robotic voice told her she was out of the area of cell phone coverage. She thought about calling Delilah on her regular phone, but decided against that. Instead, she phoned Howland, got his answering machine, and left a message.

  She climbed back up the stairs to the study. The music from Tillie’s DVD blasted out, full volume. Lee was watching intently. She glanced up from the screen when Victoria came into the room.

  “Have you seen enough?” Victoria asked.

  Lee nodded. She ejected the disk and turned off the computer. “Tillie never told me about this.” She waved at the blank screen.

  Victoria sat down in the armchair next to the desk and waited to hear the rest of what Lee had to say.

  “I was pretty stupid, wasn’t I, Mrs. Trumbull? I mean, I trusted Reverend True. My mother watches his show all the time, the one with Miss Sampson.”

  Lee was quiet for several moments. She stared out the window, her hands in her lap. The Norway maples overhanging the drive showed a haze of spring green.

  Victoria waited.

  Lee gestured at the DVD on the desk. “That’s exactly what Miss Sampson said would come next. Walking around a motel room in your underwear. And then …”

  Victoria nodded.

  “Are you sure Reverend True produced that, I mean, Tillie, you know?”

  “Yes.”

  Lee put her elbows on the desk and her head in her hands. “I don’t understand.”

  The phone rang, Howland returning Victoria’s call.

  “I need to talk to you,” Victoria said. “I’m upstairs with Lee.”

  “Has she seen the DVD?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can, Victoria.”

  Lee dropped her wadded up paper towel into the wastepaper basket. “Miss Sampson gave me the morning off, but I’d better get back. I need to apologize to her. The last thing she said to me was, she understood.”

  “Yes,” said Victoria. “She would.”

  Delilah removed Henry’s clothes from her bureau drawers and flung them, helter-skelter, into the hall outside her bedroom. She slammed the empty bottom drawer shut and tossed a pair of his shoes onto the pile of clothing. At that point Henry appeared, yawning.

  “You have a good night’s sleep, Mother?”

  “You bastard!” She hurled a boot at him. “You disgusting piece of filth!”

  He caught the boot and held it. “Did you miss me last night, Delilah, my sweet?”

  “Wipe that smile off your fat face and get out of my house!”

  “Did you forget? You threw me out of the guesthouse and turned it over to goat boy and son.”

  “Out,” said Delilah, pointing to the stairs.

  “I love it when you’re angry.” Henry dropped the boot onto the pile of clothing, pushed the pile aside with his foot, and stepped toward her.

  “Don’t you move another inch this way, or I’ll …”

  “You’ll what, Mother dear?” Henry moved another step forward. His broad grin showed large teeth beneath his narrow mustache. “Show me what you’ll do. I love …”

  A large pottery lamp stood on a table just inside Delilah’s bedroom door. She grabbed the cord and wrenched the plug out of the electric outlet, seized the lamp by its neck, and, using both hands, smashed the base over Henry’s head. Henry looked surprised. Then his eyes wobbled and rolled up until only the whites showed. He collapsed onto the heap of clothing and shards of rose-colored pottery.

  “Bastard!” screamed Delilah, and kicked him with the toe of her high-heeled satin mule. “You bastard!”

  “Where to, Victoria?” Howland had returned in response to her call.

  “I’ve got to see if Darcy’s back yet. I need to get a message to him.”

  “About the DVD?”

  “About Henry.”

  Darcy heard a scream coming from the big house, then another.

  He dropped the chamois cloth he was using to polish the limo, and ran toward the marble stairway. He took the steps three at a time, burst through the partly open front door, paused to decide where the screams had come from, and dashed up to the second-floor hall, where Delilah stood over the prostrate body of her husband.

  “Bastard!” she shouted at the unhearing Henry. “I hope I killed you, you … you … filth!”

  Darcy brushed aside the broken pottery and knelt next to Henry. Blood pulsed from a jagged cut on the top of his head, trickled through his thin white hair and around his right ear in a bright red rivulet. Darcy felt along Henry’s slack jaw and found a strongly beating pulse.

  “Call nine-one-one,” he shouted at Delilah, who stood where she was, silent and scowling.

  Darcy shook broken pottery out of the pajama top he’d been kneeling on, made a pad of it, and pressed it against the gushing wound. “Call nine-one-one, Delilah! Now!”

  “Miss Sampson?” Lee, returning from Victoria’s house, came up the stairs. “Miss Sampson! What happened?” She stopped. And stared.

  “Reverend True’s had an accident,” said Darcy. “Miss Sampson’s in shock. Call nine-one-one. Use the phone next to her bed.”

  Lee dashed off.

  “I’m not in shock,” said Delilah.

  Lee was back shortly. “The ambulance is on its way. Is he going to be okay?”

  “Probably,” said Darcy. “Someone needs to stitch up his head cut and check for concussion. Make Miss Sampson a cup of strong tea, then wait out front for the ambulance.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lee hustled down the stairs.

  Darcy continued to press on the wound and looked up.

  “Okay, Delilah, what happened?”

  “I should have killed him.”

  “Care to tell me why?”

  “That sanctimonious bastard. The Reverend. Man of God. Producer of inspirational films. Minister to thousands of little old ladies glued to their TV sets. Ha!”

  Darcy’s leg was cramping, and he shifted position. “What are you talking about?”

  “I want him to rot in jail.”

  “What triggered this?” Darcy nodded at the unconscious clergyman and continued to press on the makeshift bandage.

  “Lee’s mother watches my show. Therefore the Reverend True, who produces my show, must be a saintly man.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He told Lee she’d make a great actress. Screen tests, clothes, money, travel.”

  Darcy grunted. “Not a religious show, I gather.”

  “The religion of Henry True.” Delilah rubbed her finger and thumb together. “Money, money, money.”

  Henry groaned.

  Delilah said, “Is he coming around? That lamp was one of a pair.”

  Darcy released pressure on the wound, stood, and kneaded the cramp out of his calf. “Take over,” he said. “Hold this on the cut. I’ve got to make a call.”

  Jordan took a six-pack of Sam Adams across the road to the Willoughbys’ and went around to the far corner where Lambert Willoughby was stapling chicken wire to the posts of Chickee’s new pen.

  Willoughby looked up. “Don’t go for my B
ud Lite, eh? Guess I’ll take one of them, then.” He stood up, dusted his hands on his jeans, and accepted the Sam Adams Jordan offered him.

  Jordan walked around the outside of the fenced-in area. “A lot bigger than Chickee’s old pen, I see.”

  “Give him room,” said Willoughby. “Might get a dozen or so hens to keep him company. Sell the eggs.” He shook his head at Jordan’s offer of a bottle opener and twisted the cap off. “Chickee was Tillie’s pet, you know. She won him at the Fair.” He wiped the neck of the bottle with the palm of his hand and took a swig before he went on. “I’d like to know what the cops are doing to find her killer. Cold trail, now. Five months. Christ!” He wiped his forearm across his forehead, leaving a smear of grime. “She was a wild one, but not mean, if you get me.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Howland glanced into the rearview mirror. “There’s an ambulance behind us, Victoria.”

  They’d turned left onto North Road at the big split oak. The ambulance, coming from the fire station in North Tisbury, had turned as well. Howland pulled over to let it pass. Well ahead of them, it signaled a right turn.

  “That’s Delilah’s road,” said Victoria.

  Howland followed the ambulance down the dirt road for a quarter mile to the fork, where the ambulance made a left turn.

  “That’s her driveway,” said Victoria. “Hurry!”

  They passed between Delilah’s granite posts onto the Belgian block pavement, and pulled up behind the ambulance in front of her great house. By the time Howland parked, the EMTs had already disappeared into the house.

  Howland raced after them, leaving Victoria to climb the marble steps more slowly. When she finally reached the inside stairway, she paused and heard the brusk and unfamiliar voice of a man giving directions and a woman answering. The ambulance crew. Someone must be injured.

  By the time she reached the second floor, EMTs had lifted the unconscious Henry onto a stretcher and strapped him in. The two, a man and a woman, looked too slender to heft Henry’s bulk, but they carried the stretcher gently down the stairs and out the front door.

  When Victoria stepped aside to let them by she saw the heap of blood-soaked clothing and broken pottery on the floor where Henry had lain.