Trumpet of Death

by Cynthia Riggs

  “That Eberhardt bitch is trouble,” said Joe. “Someone’s gonna take care of her one of these days.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Zack headed toward his farm job, scarcely noticing the scenery around him. Twenty minutes later he was almost at the airport before he’d calmed down enough to think straight after that meeting with Sam.

  Yesterday he’d felt like telling Mrs. Trumbull that his girlfriend was getting weird, like the stuff she was snorting was frying her brain or something.

  Now telling him she’s pregnant. If she really was pregnant, it wasn’t him. Was this her idea of a joke? She was probably getting even with him because he broke up first. Marriage to her was definitely not in his plans. He couldn’t imagine it in her plans, either.

  This summer was the first time he’d had a job away from his familiar haunts in South Boston, where he’d worked as busboy in a crummy restaurant. He’d come to the Island to earn some money. With two jobs, he’d end the summer with a chunk of cash. But then he met Samantha. Didn’t take long before he could tell she was snorting or shooting up or smoking his money. Like it belonged to her.

  He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. Exactly how much time did he have? He knew nothing about having babies. How long would it be until she showed, if she really was pregnant. How long did he have if she had to get an abortion?

  How did he get out of this mess?

  He’d passed the airport and was almost at the big windmill by Morning Glory Farm before he thought of his walk with Victoria Trumbull yesterday. Those black trumpets of death had been sort of in the back of his mind all morning. Amazing how the mind works.

  He’d go to Sam, apologize, offer to patch things up. A friendly meal together. Those nice black mushrooms would make her sick and that would end the pregnancy.

  But he for sure couldn’t have dinner with her and not eat them.

  He was thinking so hard, he passed Meeting House Road, the shortcut to the farm. Well, he had time and the long way wouldn’t delay him that much.

  He was still thinking as he came to where the road ended in a T. He’d only just learned the nice-looking captain’s house in front of him was the county jail. Not a place he’d like to stay, nice as it looked on the outside.

  He turned right onto Main Street.

  He’d present her with some of the black trumpets. Tell her they were a delicacy. He’d be shocked when she got sick. For sure lose the baby, if there even was one. Why, he had no idea they were poisonous, he’d say. Mrs. Trumbull never said they were.

  As he headed toward Katama and the farm job, he flipped on his radio with a lighter heart. Never say die, he told himself.

  This will be easy.

  * * *

  The following day, Friday, Zack got up early, even before Victoria was awake. He borrowed one of her baskets, drove to Sachem’s Rock, and retraced his steps to the place they’d walked two mornings before. It took him a lot less time to find the death trumpets because he didn’t have to stop every few minutes while Mrs. Trumbull examined something on the ground or in the trees or in the sky. He picked every one of the little trumpet shaped mushrooms and they half-filled the basket.

  He drove to work leaving the basket in the car, the mushrooms covered with one of Mrs. Trumbull’s red-checked napkins.

  Will greeted him at the door of the restaurant. He’d parked his bicycle in the rack next to the hedge. “How’d the meeting with Samantha go?”

  “Fine,” said Zack with a bright smile, not wanting to hint that he felt ready to kill the bitch.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Will, grinning.

  “No, really, fine. Everything was, like, friendly.”

  Will shook his head. “You’re shitting me. Samantha has never, and I mean never, let a guy walk away from her first. She’s a control freak.” They headed toward the kitchen. “But okay. Believe what you want. Vampires turn into vegetarians. Samantha turns into the Sugar Plum Fairy.” He pushed the swinging door open and they both went into the kitchen.

  “What’s the luncheon crowd look like?” asked Zack.

  “We got a lot of reservations. More than usual. Plus the usual walk-ins. Means plenty of dirty dishes.”

  “He cooking anything messy this noon?”

  Will laughed. “Doesn’t he always?”

  They laid out detergent and scouring pads.

  Zack said, “You know anything about mushrooms, Will? I mean, like how long they keep?”

  Will looked up. He’d been kneeling by the sink looking for a brush. “Where’d that come from?”

  “Just curious.”

  “One kind turns black and slimy almost right away,” said Will. “I think most kinds keep for a week, maybe more. They dry pretty good.”

  Zack was thinking of the black trumpets. It would be just his luck to have them be the ones to turn black and slimy. He changed the subject. “I hope the mess is not too bad today. I want to leave early.”

  “A parting with sweet Sam?”

  “Ex-Zack-ly,” said Zack, and grinned at his own cleverness.

  * * *

  The morning had a feel to it that Victoria loved, a sort of closing in. Sounds were clearer. The atmosphere seemed to magnify them. She could hear foghorns as far away as the distant North Shore. She would go for a walk this afternoon and let beads of moisture collect in her hair, just as she’d done when she was a child.

  After lunch, she hiked the short distance to the tiny police station next to the Mill Pond. She carried a paper sack of stale bread in her cloth bag for the ducks, geese, and swans that inhabited the pond. When they saw her coming, they flocked around, honking and quacking. She emptied the sack of crumbs and made her way up the steps to the station house door, which she knew would be unlocked.

  She knocked. “Anybody home?”

  Casey looked up from her paperwork. “Yeah, but not for long. Got to go back to the fire site. You want to come with me?”

  “Yes. I’d like to see what’s there.”

  “Have a seat, Victoria. I have to finish up this stuff.” She pointed to the pile of papers in front of her. “Paperwork,” she said in disgust. “Well, it’s not as bad as it looks. I won’t be a minute.”

  While she waited, sitting in the wooden armchair in front of Casey’s desk, Victoria watched the swans immerse their heads and long necks into the water to nibble on morsels in the bottom muck. How perfectly they were designed for the job of foraging in shallow water.

  Casey tossed down her pen, straightened the pile of papers on her desk, and stood. “That’s it. Let’s go.”

  “Any word on the victim’s identification?” Victoria followed Casey down the steps.

  “They sent what information they could about the victim’s teeth to Island dentists, and if that doesn’t yield any IDs they’ll widen the search to dentists on the Cape. Maybe as far as Boston.”

  “How long is that likely to take?”

  Casey shrugged. “No idea.”

  Victoria seated herself next to Casey. “We’ll have fog later this afternoon.”

  “Looks to me like nice sunny weather in the works.”

  “There’ll be fog.” Victoria took her blue hat out of her cloth bag. Gold lettering on the hat read WEST TISBURY POLICE, DEPUTY.

  “You’re usually right about weather.” Casey backed out onto the main road. “You seem to have a sixth sense about it.”

  Victoria settled her hat on her head and pulled down the sun visor to peer into the small mirror.

  By the time she’d finished, they had gone the short distance to Brandy Brow and the triangle where State Road, South Road, and the Edgartown Road joined. And where, straight ahead, Victoria could see two chimneys and the ruins of the parsonage. Thin trails of smoke drifted with the breeze.

  “Have you had any reports of missing people?”

  Casey shook her head. “Nope.”

  They turned into the drive next to what was once the parsonage and parked near an array of vehicle
s, all with insignias on their door. The entire charred area was cordoned off with yellow tape that fluttered in the light breeze. White-suited, booted, and hooded investigators poked through the rubble. Radios crackled with static and voices.

  Tears stung Victoria’s eyes. A tragedy. The death of a human being as yet unknown and the death of a fine old building.

  Someone must miss that person. Who? Surely, somebody must be worried.

  * * *

  When Zack finished the lunchtime dishwashing and cleanup that afternoon, he went out to his car to check the condition of the black mushrooms. He lifted the napkin that covered them to make sure they weren’t the kind that turned into slime. They looked as fresh as when he’d picked them this morning. He replaced the napkin and headed for Sam’s place.

  Thin tendrils of mist drifted in from the Sound. When he drove up to her place, the tendrils were snaking up the hill. He shivered. Summer was over and once he got rid of Samantha he’d go back to South Boston where life was normal.

  He parked next to her Mini and reached into the backseat of his car for the basket. He gathered up his jacket from the front seat and tossed it over his shoulders.

  He knocked on her door and, when there was no answer, walked around to the back of the house. Thin fog was beginning to mask the sun. Samantha had gotten up from her lounge chair. She was wearing that same tiny orange bathing suit, earbuds in, listening to something on her iPhone. She didn’t notice him at first, and he watched her shrug into her white terry cloth robe, tossing her body around in time to music he couldn’t hear. The view out over the water was blotted out. A seagull flew overhead mewling.

  She turned, saw him, and pulled off the earbuds. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to, like, apologize.”

  “Is that right?” She tightened the belt of her robe. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the farm right now?”

  He held up the basket. “I brought you a present.”

  “It’s freezing out here.” She shivered and ignored the basket. “I’m going inside. Bye!” She stepped up onto the back deck and opened the door.

  He followed.

  She turned. “You still here? You’re blocking the door.”

  He followed her inside. Why did he let her make him feel so stupid? Well, Samantha Eberhardt, we’ll see. He held up the basket again.

  She glanced at it. “What did you bring me?”

  He went over to the kitchen counter and set the basket on it. “Something really special.” He removed the napkin with a flourish, but it caught in the handle, ruining the effect. He grabbed the basket before it fell.

  She peered into it. “What’s that?” She looked up at him. “What are they supposed to be?” She tossed her head, and her hair flew over her shoulder in a blue-black cascade.

  “Mrs. Trumbull took me mushroom hunting.” Zack stroked the stubble on his chin. “They’re black trumpet mushrooms.”

  “What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “Victoria Trumbull says they’re a delicacy,” said Zack, stretching the truth a bit.

  “I’m not about to eat something that grows wild in the woods. They’re probably poisonous.”

  Zack flinched. “Mrs. Trumbull’s word is good enough for me.”

  Samantha picked up the basket. “Well, then, thank you soooo much. I’ll put them in the fridge and sauté them for our supper. You will be here for supper, won’t you?”

  “I can’t.” Zack assumed a stricken look. “There’s a potluck supper at the farm.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  “No, you go ahead. Anyway, I picked them for you. Will you forgive me?” He leaned toward her about to kiss her.

  She pushed him away. “That beard of yours scratches.” She pursed her mouth. “Now we’re friends again, maybe we should keep the baby. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  * * *

  The fog closed in quickly. A thick fog that swirled around him like a cape, drifting around his feet. He could barely see his way back to his car.

  Would she eat the mushrooms? Didn’t sound as though she was real excited about them.

  Maybe the whole thing was a waste of time. What if she did eat them and got really sick or even died?

  He didn’t really hate her. He just didn’t want to marry her. Or, my God, have a baby with her.

  Almost the worst thing was the basket, one of Mrs. Trumbull’s favorites. And the red checked napkin. He’d taken them without asking her. He’d have to get them back before she missed them.

  He had time to go back and retrieve the basket, the napkin, and the mushrooms. He’d march in and tell Sammy that since she didn’t want them, he was taking them back to Mrs. Trumbull.

  But he didn’t want to face Mrs. Trumbull with the rare mushrooms. She’d told him not to pick them.

  He didn’t want to face Samantha, either. She wouldn’t eat them.

  He got into his car, started it up, and inched his way slowly down the dirt road he could barely make out toward the main road and his farm job.

  It would serve her right if she ate them. They weren’t going to kill her, after all.

  Those black trumpets of death loomed up in front of him, a giant basket the size of the restaurant’s sink. Black mushrooms, like grease-caked saucepans, danced before his eyes.

  Go back?

  No. She won’t eat them.

  He slammed his hands on the steering wheel.

  He’d fucked up again.

  CHAPTER 5

  The minute Zack left, Samantha tossed off her robe, slipped buttercup-yellow sweats over her bathing suit, took the basket of black trumpets out to her Mini Cooper, and set it on the front seat. She switched on the headlights, but that simply made the fog close in. She turned the lights off and drove slowly down her road. At the main road, the fog was thinner, and she went straight to her father’s house overlooking Quitsa Pond. She glanced back toward her little house on the bluff, but it was hidden in a dense cloud.

  Her father was having his post-lunch martini on the deck. He was sprawled out on a teak bench, feet up on a coffee table. The once-bright sunlight had become watery and cool. He stood as she came up the steps onto the deck.

  “Sweetie pie, what brings you here?” He set the martini glass down on the coffee table. He was several inches taller than she, built like an ex–football player. His thinning silver hair was cut short.

  Samantha nodded at the sliding door. “Where’s the bitch?”

  “I like those yellow sweats,” said Daddy. “Good color for you.”

  “She inside?”

  “You don’t mean Isabella, do you?”

  “You got someone else?”

  “Now, now,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Be a good girl. Isabella and I are having a few people over for supper next Friday. Care to join us?”

  “No thanks, Daddy.”

  “Got other plans?”

  “I’m going off-Island for, maybe, a week. Maybe more.”

  “Doing something special?”

  “Not really. Shopping. Take in a couple shows. More shopping. Dinner with friends.” She held out the basket. “That stupid Zack, the guy who has the hots for me, gave me these.”

  He looked into the basket. “Black trumpets. Well. Where did he find them?”

  “Who knows. He went someplace with Victoria Trumbull and he claims she said they’re good to eat. I don’t trust him.”

  He picked one of the mushrooms out of the basket. “One of the choicest mushrooms there is, sweetie pie. Like truffles.”

  “Black mushrooms?”

  “I’ll get Cook to prepare something special with them for our dinner Friday. Sorry you won’t be here.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not sorry,” said Samantha. “Besides, she gives me indigestion.”

  “Not Cook, surely?”

  Samantha gave him her look. “How much longer are you going to let her live off of you?”

  “Now, now,” said Daddy.

  * * *


  Samantha headed for home down the long drive and turned onto South Road. She hadn’t gone far when a deer leaped out of the undergrowth to her right. She jammed on the brakes, skidded on the moisture-slick surface, and the car stalled. An oncoming pickup materialized out of the fog and narrowly missed her. The horn blared and the high-pitched blast faded off into the distance.

  “What did you expect me to do, asshole?” she shouted at the disappearing taillights. She started up the engine, pulled over to the side of the road and sat, calming her nerves. What an idiot. God, she was lucky he didn’t crush the Mini. He probably wouldn’t have noticed.

  Once she calmed down she thought about Zack and his black mushrooms. She had an idea. She fished her cell phone out of the pocket of her sweatpants and punched in Number 1.

  “Sweetie,” Daddy answered. “Where are you? Driving’s tricky. You be careful.”

  “You’re not just kidding. I almost got creamed by some freak in a pickup.”

  “Hope you’re not driving and talking on the phone.”

  “No, Daddy. I’m parked.” She switched the phone to her other ear.

  “You get his license number?” He sounded concerned.

  “He was going too fast.”

  “Anything at all?”

  “How am I supposed to know? He went past me in a blur. Anyway, I’m almost home.” She paused. “Daddy, would you do me a big little favor?”

  “Of course. Anything my sweetums wants.

  “You’re serving those black mushrooms Friday, aren’t you?”

  “They’re in the fridge. Cook’s got her recipes spread out over the kitchen table now, as we speak. Isabella informed her she’s to serve the black trumpets Friday. Pièce de résistance.”

  “How much longer is that bitch going to be around?”

  “You keep asking me that, darlin’.” Daddy laughed. “We’ll see. Now, what’s my little girl’s big little favor? Another car? Your Mini too small for you?”

  “You’re so silly, Daddy. I want you to invite Zack to dinner.”