“Will he die?” asked Susan.
He tapped his pen against his clipboard. “It depends on how much he had to drink and how much we were able to wash out of his stomach before the alcohol got into his bloodstream.”
“I knew about the mushrooms.” Susan looked away. “I figured it would teach them a lesson if they ate them and drank like I knew they would.” She looked down. “I didn’t mean to kill them.”
CHAPTER 29
At the Black Dog, Ophelia pushed the uneaten half of her hamburger aside. “This is too much. Would you like it, Sam?”
“Sure.” He scooped the half burger onto his plate.
“I didn’t know you’d gone to school with Horace. Such a long time ago.” Ophelia set her elbows on the table and leaned her chin on her hands. “Please tell me about him.”
Minnowfish took a bite, chewed, and wiped his mouth before he answered. “What’s to tell?”
“You knew him in the high school here. What was he like?”
“Two years ahead of me. He was on the tennis team. That’s about all I knew.”
“The parents who adopted him. Who are they?” Ophelia picked up a fry from her plate, dipped it into the pool of ketchup, and nibbled it.
“Rich guy named Robert Mann. Moved to Edgartown with his wife after he’d made a bundle. No children of their own, so they adopted our Horace as a babe in arms. That’s about it.” He took another large bite, chewed, swallowed. “What’s suddenly triggered your interest in Horace besides the fact that he’s just inherited three million dollars and Aileen McBride seems to have the inside track on his affections?”
“You mustn’t be so crude, Sam.” Ophelia toyed with her fork. Took a sip of her beer. Stared out the window at the lights reflected on the dark water.
Sam laughed.
Ophelia turned to him. “I don’t know why you’re laughing. Horace is my boss. Our boss. Of course I’m interested in knowing everything about him.”
“No need to get your feathers in a tizzy.”
The waiter came to their table. “Are you ready for dessert?”
“Why not,” said Sam. “Blueberry pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream for me.”
“May I have coffee,” said Ophelia. “Black, please.”
“Regular or decaf?”
“Regular, of course.”
After the waiter left with their order, Ophelia said, “What was the name of the local girl?”
“What local girl?” asked Sam, looking puzzled for an instant.
“His birth mother.”
Sam laughed. “Can’t let go, can you. I was imagining my blueberry pie.”
Ophelia tapped her fingernails on the table. “It is of interest to me.”
“Girl from Chilmark.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“Look, Ophelia. I’m tired of this. You want information on Horace Mann, go to the courthouse and look it up. I want to digest my food.” He took a clean napkin from the table and wiped his mouth and hands.
Ophelia continued to tap her fingernails. “You don’t like Dr. Mann, do you?”
“It’s not a question of like or dislike. I work for the guy. He’s a reasonably good boss. I leave my work at the office. I don’t fraternize with the white man, and I can see why.” He wadded up the paper napkin, threw it onto the table, slid off the bench, and stood. “This dinner was a mistake.”
“Sit down, Sam. I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet.”
The waiter arrived with a large slice of blueberry pie oozing reddish-purple berries, and set it on the table.
Sam paused.
“Black Dog blueberry pie,” he murmured. He sat again. “Can’t waste it.”
* * *
At Offshore Ale, Dr. Aileen McBride reached for a peanut, snapped it open, picked out a nut with nicely manicured fingernails, and popped it into her mouth. “Did you know that Mrs. Wilmington had that kind of money?”
Mann laughed. “Aileen, my dear, there are few secrets on this Island. When you’ve lived here for fifteen or twenty years, you’ll understand.” He helped himself to a handful of peanuts, systematically cracked them open, and brushed the shells onto the floor. “Islanders had a pretty good idea of what she was worth. Fifty acres in Chilmark?”
“It must have been wonderful living on the Vineyard as a child,” said Aileen.
Mann nodded. “I was born and raised here.”
“Were your parents from the Vineyard?”
He pushed the basket of peanuts toward her. “Here, I seem to be monopolizing them.”
She shook her head, and the overhead light glinted on her bright hair. “I’ve had too many, thanks.” She wiped her napkin across the table in front of her. “I read an article recently in the Island Enquirer about a couple named Mann, how they attended their fiftieth high school reunion in Summit, New Jersey.” She looked up and met his eyes. “It said they moved to the Vineyard after he graduated from Princeton and adopted a son. Was that you?”
The waiter came to their table and set their meals in front of them. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Another ale for me,” said Mann. “You, Aileen?”
“I’m fine.”
The waiter took their glasses and left.
She waited for him to respond.
Mann frowned. “There’s never been any secret about my being adopted.” He picked up his burger and poked the tomato slice back under the bun. “My parents had no children of their own. They adopted me when I was a couple of days old. I always knew I’d been adopted.” He bit into his burger.
Aileen pushed her salad around on her plate with her fork. “You must be curious about your birth parents.”
“You know, Aileen, this is my private business.”
“I’m sorry, Horace. I shouldn’t pry.” She pushed her fork into a mound of shredded green vegetables and lifted it partway to her mouth and stopped. “You know, I can’t help wondering. I mean, is it possible that Mrs. Wilmington was your birth mother?”
He set his burger down carefully on his plate. “What are you talking about?”
“I know it’s none of my business, but that would explain a lot. I mean, the way she was always hovering around you at the clinic.” She forked the salad into her mouth and began to chew. “The three million,” she said around her mouthful.
He pushed his plate away from him. “I don’t like what you’re suggesting.”
“I don’t mean to suggest anything, Horace. Don’t take it personally.”
“Personally! I’m not supposed to take personally this poking around you’re doing into my private life?”
“I’m not poking around.” She set her fork down on her plate. “I’m simply interested. As you said, there are no secrets on the Island. Do you know who your birth father is?”
“Can’t take a hint, can you.” He picked up his burger again. “Enough about me.” He took a bite.
“I would think you’d want to know who your real father is.”
“I have a father.” He chewed.
“You could have a DNA test done.”
“Let’s discuss you for a change, shall we?” He put the burger down, wiped his mouth, and peered closely at her hair, her eyes, her nose, her mouth. “Let’s see, now. Hmmm.” He tilted his head. “Yes. Your hair. You know, of course, your dark roots are showing.” He leaned over the table to look more closely. “Your lips. Botox? Your nose. Inherited from your birth father? I assume you had it restructured. A botched job.”
She put her hand up to her face. “Oh, stop! Stop!”
“If you recall, Aileen, I am the head of the dental clinic and you are a dentist employed by me. We have to work together.” He handed her a clean napkin. “You have an advantage over me. I can’t cry.”
She took the napkin and blotted her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Shall we declare a truce?” he asked softly. “Actually, your nose is just fine and your hair is beautiful.”
* * *
Lock
wood left Victoria’s front door unlatched and headed for the hostel. She’d think she’d forgotten to slide the bolt home. Lockwood smiled. She was vain about her fine memory. It wouldn’t hurt to unsettle her.
The moon had not yet risen and the night was dark.
He looked both ways before he crossed the road. No cars coming from either direction. No one to see him. He turned onto the walking path leading to the hostel. Not exactly luxurious quarters. Elizabeth would never find him there.
A swale marked the end of Victoria’s property. He’d reached the bottom of the small valley when suddenly he was hit with nausea. He’d felt fine up until this moment. His mouth watered and he stepped off the path into a growth of huckleberry, poverty grass, and reindeer moss. He leaned over, hoping to clear his stomach of whatever was in it. But nothing came up. He started to sweat profusely. His heart raced. That meal he’d eaten with Scott. Steak and mushroom gravy, salad. The wine? He’d had only three glasses, a nice Merlot. He shook his head to clear it, and when he did, his head felt as though someone had struck him with a hammer. He swung his hands up to his temples to hold his head together, and then he collapsed. As he fell, he grabbed at a small bush, felt the leathery leaves. Hard unripe berries dropped off making no sound. His last thought before he hit the ground was that he was going to land in a bed of soft reindeer moss.
CHAPTER 30
The clock over the desk in the Emergency Room clicked off the time as Victoria and Elizabeth waited with Susan. Susan’s sister and brother dozed some distance away, separated by several plastic chairs.
Heather had drawn two chairs together and curled her large frame into them, feet on one, head on the arm of the other.
Victoria started a sestina in the notebook she always carried, a poetry form of six stanzas with the same six words used at the end of each line, but used in a different order. Writing the poem required concentration, just what she needed right now.
Elizabeth and Susan conversed in low voices or went back to reading the magazine articles neither seemed interested in.
Doc Yablonsky left Scott’s room to tend to other business, then reappeared.
“Will he die?” Susan asked.
“I doubt it.” Doc Yablonsky shrugged. “Only a slim chance that alcohol poisoning will kill him. But there’s a possibility that the strain on his heart might.” He looked at his watch. “What is most likely is he’ll have the worst hangover known to mankind, headache, queasy stomach, lasting for days.”
“When will we know something definite?” Victoria asked.
“Doctor Ya-blon-sky, Doctor Ya-blon-sky,” a muted voice came over the speaker system. “Please report to Intensive Care.”
“Mrs. Trumbull, you and Elizabeth might as well go home. You, too, Susan. There’s nothing you can do here.” He looked over at Heather and Wesley. “We’ll keep an eye on them.”
He stopped at the desk and spoke to Hope, who nodded and left the desk to go into Scott’s room.
Elizabeth stood and stretched her arms over her head. “No point in sitting here, Gram. Let’s go. Although it’s been nice not to worry about Lockwood.” She turned to Susan, who was still seated. “We’ll drive you home.”
Victoria put her notebook back into her cloth bag. “Why don’t you spend the rest of the night with us, Susan. We have plenty of room.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Trumbull. I hate to impose.”
“It’s no imposition. When the hospital calls, we can go together.”
They left contact numbers with Hope, who’d come out to answer the phone. Victoria glanced up at the clock. “Almost two a.m. We can get a few hours of sleep.”
They drove home the back way along Barnes Road. Headlights picked up dew sparkling on the roadside grasses. As they passed the upper end of the Lagoon, the light of the half-moon shone on a sailboat riding at anchor.
Elizabeth yawned.
They stopped at the roundabout. Not a car in sight. As they passed the airport, no colored lights illuminated the runway. At the end of Barnes Road they turned onto the Edgartown Road.
A deer bounded across the road in front of them.
“I’m glad that wasn’t a skunk,” said Victoria. “They don’t move that quickly.”
“Keep a lookout, Gram. I don’t want to deal with skunks.”
They passed the youth hostel and the fire station and reached the brow of the valley that marked Victoria’s property line. She was watching the side of the road for stray animals when she saw something that didn’t belong.
“Stop, Elizabeth,” she called out. “There’s a large animal…”
Elizabeth slowed and Victoria peered out. “I think it’s a person.”
Elizabeth pulled to the side of the road and Victoria eased herself out.
“I’ll check,” said Susan, extricating herself from the backseat.
Long dry grass rustled and twigs snapped as Susan stepped over the low underbrush between the road and the bicycle path. Victoria watched her bend over, then straighten up and call out, “A man. He’s alive.”
Elizabeth tugged her cell phone out of her pocket and punched in 911. “A man on the bike path. We don’t know his condition.”
“Ambulance will be there shortly,” said the dispatcher.
Susan returned. “He’s alive but he’s obviously in pain.”
“Do you have a blanket in the car?” Victoria asked. “We should cover him.”
“It’s in the trunk. I’ll get it,” said Elizabeth.
“Someone should stay with him until the ambulance arrives,” said Victoria.
“I will,” said Susan.
Elizabeth slammed down the trunk lid and handed her the blanket.
Within minutes the ambulance, siren mute so as not to awaken West Tisbury’s sleeping population, appeared at the brow of the valley. It made a U-turn and parked behind them, and the EMTs who’d taken Scott to the hospital a few hours earlier got out.
“Mrs. Trumbull, we meet again,” said Jim, the driver. His partner, Erica, switched on a MagLite and focused it on Susan, now standing over the prone figure.
“He must have been heading to the youth hostel,” said Victoria. “It’s the only building around other than private homes.” A predawn breeze had sprung up and she turned up her collar. “He wasn’t there when we drove past around eight. At least, I didn’t notice him if he was.”
The EMTs wheeled a stretcher across the narrow strip between road and path. Victoria, Elizabeth, and Susan huddled together and watched them load the stretcher and wheel it back to the ambulance. When the rear doors opened, light shone on the figure on the stretcher.
“Lockwood!” Elizabeth cried out.
“You know him?” asked Jim.
“Her ex-husband,” said Victoria.
They gave him what information they could.
Jim tucked his notebook into his shirt pocket. “I know where to reach you. You better get some sleep. We’ll take care of him.”
He climbed back into the ambulance. Red and white lights strobed. An early-morning ground fog diffused the light and the valley was filled with a swirling pink and white cloud.
Victoria and the two young women watched until the rotating light was no longer visible.
“Was that the man in the Jeep that sideswiped me?” asked Susan.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “Omigod!” she said suddenly. “He was in our house.”
In minutes, they were home, entering by the kitchen door, as usual. “Will you be able to sleep?” Victoria asked.
“Lockwood was here,” said Elizabeth. “In this house. I’ve got to see what he was doing.” She slumped onto the parlor sofa, kicked off her shoes, put her feet up, and was asleep before Victoria could respond.
Susan yawned.
“You need to sleep as well.” Victoria led her to the downstairs bedroom. Susan tugged off her shoes and, fully clothed, slipped between the sheets.
“Thanks.” She breathed in the scent of sunshine-and-fresh-air-dried sheets an
d murmured, “Wonderful.”
“The good west wind,” said Victoria, turning out the light. She returned to the parlor where Elizabeth snored gently and spread a blanket over her granddaughter. After she switched off the light she went to the kitchen to brew tea.
While she was waiting for the water to heat, she thought about Lockwood. Elizabeth was right. He must have been in the house. Where was he staying? Surely not at the hostel. That wasn’t like him. What was he doing on the path? Had he suffered a heart attack? Tripped over a fallen stick or a rough spot on the dark path and fallen?
The water came to a boil. She poured it over her teabag and held her hands around the mug to warm them.
Dealing with Lockwood was a job for the professionals, Casey had said. She was probably right. But professionals couldn’t protect Elizabeth every minute.
In the far reaches of her mind, buried so deeply she wasn’t even sure it was there, was the thought that it would be a blessing if he’d had a heart attack and died.
She felt helpless.
Not only about Elizabeth. She’d now taken responsibility for Susan, as well. Susan had a seriously ill brother, two inebriated siblings, a house full of resentment, and a murdered grandmother.
Victoria finished her tea, rinsed out the mug and left it upside down in the sink. She knew she couldn’t sleep. Even though Lockwood was presumably out of commission for some time, she couldn’t help feeling the need to protect her two young women.
Who had killed Susan’s grandmother? All four grandchildren needed money. Did they need it enough to kill? How ironic if they did kill and inherited only a token amount. Except Susan. The house and land was not a token amount.
She put her coat back on and went outside, closing the screen door softly. She stepped down onto the large stone step and walked through the small garden that was bounded by a low farmer’s wall. She needed to be outside, to sit on the bench by the fish pond and think.
By the light of the half-moon she saw a branch that had broken off the maple tree. She bent down and picked it up. It was a large branch covered with grandfather’s beard, a gray lichen. She sat on the bench beside the fish pond and snapped the branch into kindling-sized pieces while she thought. The bench was damp from night dew. The chill went through her corduroy trousers, but she scarcely noticed.
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