Trumpet of Death

by Cynthia Riggs

  “About Samantha?”

  Casey nodded. “He didn’t actually use her name, but it was clear he believes she’s responsible for Sebastian’s death.”

  “That’s extraordinary,” said Victoria.

  Casey picked up the stone again and tossed it back and forth, over and over.

  “Was the parsonage locked?” asked Victoria.

  Casey snorted. “As I discovered when I first got to this crazy island, nobody locks doors. People leave keys in their car’s ignition while they go shopping.” She swiveled in her chair. “The police station didn’t have a lock until I asked at Town Meeting to have a lock installed. Even then, a lot of villagers thought that was an unnecessary expense.”

  “It’s a public building,” said Victoria. “It should be available to the public.”

  “Sure, Victoria, with all the records and forms and … oh, forget it.” She tossed the stone down. “Yeah, the parsonage was locked, but a two-year-old could have broken in. The lock dated from seventeen-something.”

  “It would be an attractive secret meeting place, on a slight rise with the back door facing the pond, not the road,” said Victoria.

  “The arson team is going over the remains of the building now. They can deduce amazing stuff just from the ashes.” Casey turned to look at the pond. “Sebastian was a decent kid. And his father is crushed. Something he’ll never get over.”

  “I’d like to talk to Samantha and hear what she has to say,” said Victoria.

  “All we can do, Victoria, is give the state cops all the information we have, all our suppositions, suspicions, everything. We can’t get involved.”

  Victoria said, “But—”

  Casey held up her hand. “I mean it, Victoria. It’s not our jurisdiction. We have to give Lincoln all the support we can. He’s going to need it.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Although it was a beautiful, clear evening with the sun just beginning to set, Zack felt as though the entire world was, enveloped in a dense soup.

  Was he crazy? Why was he heading toward Samantha’s father’s house? Furthermore, it was Friday the thirteenth. Why didn’t he have the guts to say no to this dinner invitation? Mrs. Trumbull had noticed how sick he was.

  Did Samantha tell her father she was pregnant?

  He didn’t want to think about that.

  He slowed down to make a U-turn back to the safety of Mrs. Trumbull’s, when the dump truck that was on his tail blasted its air horn at him, startling him. He sped up.

  The next dirt road was her father’s driveway, and he flipped on the right turn signal. The dump truck’s horn blasted at him again. The sound trailed off as the truck passed.

  The long unmarked road led up a hill to the house. A sprinkler was soaking the manicured grass in the center strip for a natural rutted-road Island look. When he reached the end of the road Zack parked in a wide area paved with crushed white shell and opened his door. Before him and below him was a view overlooking a pond that was full of small boats.

  He felt a sour rush in his stomach. How come other people were messing around in their boats with not a care in the world, and here he was, about to have dinner with Samantha’s father. And his guests.

  He swiveled in his seat and set both feet on the crushed shell. He groaned and stood up. His first meeting with Samantha’s father. He straightened his pant legs, which had ridden up above his ankles. He took a step in the direction of Daddy’s house. His feet sank into the crushed shell and slowed him. The walk to the house was up an incline that was broken into steps with old railroad ties. The steps were higher than he expected. He stumbled and caught himself before he fell.

  He straightened his shirt. He should have changed it. Mrs. Trumbull said it looked fine, but how many times did she go calling on someone like Samantha’s father?

  He coughed and felt in his pocket for a used paper towel.

  He climbed the second step. And the third step.

  In what seemed to be the far distance there was a level area and stairs that led up to a wide porch where people were gathered.

  Somehow he climbed the fourth and last step and crossed the level area. The sound of cocktail chatter got louder and he could make out individual words. All seemed to be about money or boats or horses.

  A huge, hearty man with a glowing tan and short silver hair greeted him. He was dressed in tan slacks with a knitted white collared shirt, identical to Zack’s.

  “Zack, my boy! Nice to meet you. Where’s Sammy been hiding you?” Daddy slapped him on the back and Zack staggered. “Come meet my friends. Can’t tell you how delighted we are you provided us with our supper.” He slapped Zack’s back again.

  “Sir?” Zack was dumbfounded. What was he talking about?

  “My guests look forward to this meal. When they heard you are the one responsible for what promises to be a memorable treat, well, they can hardly wait to shake your hand.”

  Zack felt sweat trickling down the back of his shirt, the one exactly like Daddy’s. “I…” said Zack. “I … I … I…?”

  “That’s okay, boy. I don’t want to embarrass you. But I have to compliment you on your generosity.”

  “Generosity?” Zack finally blurted out. “Sir…?”

  “Why, black trumpets, of course,” he said. “Don’t think I’ve ever eaten one. You know they’re also called trumpets of death. Odd name for a mushroom we’re about to dine on. Have to tell you, this meal is going to be memorable.” He whispered in Zack’s ear, “Only invited a half-dozen close friends. Don’t want the whole world to know what we’re having for dinner.” They were standing on a deck of some kind of expensively oiled wood. Daddy held up his hand and the chatter ceased. “Folks, meet Sammy’s fiancé. The man who brought us the black trumpets.”

  There was a smattering of applause. In the midst of it, Zack felt the porch tilt and the people began to swirl around him in a ghastly dance. Sick people. Hospitalized people. Maybe someone would die? Their sepulchral voices merged together in a cacophony of guffawing and mocking sounds. Zack reached for the porch railing to steady himself.

  “You okay, boy?” Daddy’s concerned voice broke through the chorus. He placed a large hand on Zack’s shoulder. “You look like death warmed over. Hunger, that’s what it is. Growing boy. Need to get some food into that stomach of yours.”

  Zack shook his head. “I’m fine, thank you, sir.” An idea hit him. “Must be coming down with something. Better get on home. Don’t want anyone to catch whatever…” His voice trailed off.

  “Nonsense. Double shot of bourbon, perk you right up.” He raised a finger. “Kill whatever’s bothering you.”

  Out of his haze Zack saw a white-coated figure approach. The figure was holding over its head a white-napkin-covered tray topped by a squarish bottle of some golden liquor and a glass full of presumably the same stuff. He shut his eyes briefly and when he opened them things had cleared. In front of him stood Will Osborne, his fellow dishwasher at the Beetlebung Cafe.

  “How’s it going, Zack? Double shot of bourbon coming up.”

  Daddy had turned away and was conferring with a bosomy blonde.

  Zack shook his head and held up a hand. “No, thanks, Will.”

  “Boss’s orders.” Will held a hand up to his mouth so only Zack could hear. “Drink it and smile. The stuff ain’t cheap.”

  He turned away from the blonde and back to Zack. He waved at the glass Zack held in trembling hands. “Fourteen-year-old Wild Turkey you’re holding there. Fix you right up, boy.” He took hold of Zack’s upper arm. “Want you to meet the GF. Girlfriend, you know.” He gestured to a tall dark-haired woman in a form-fitting red satin dress with spaghetti straps. “Isabella, meet our Sammy’s fiancé.” He turned to Zack.

  “How lovely.” She smiled. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Zack, ma’am.”

  “Isabella’s an Indian from Gay Head, son.”

  Isabella’s smile was forced. “He meant to say, ‘Wampanoag fr
om Aquinnah.’” She offered Zack her hand. “How do you do.”

  After they shook, she discreetly withdrew a tissue from a pocket, wiped her hand of Zack’s cold sweat, and smiled at Daddy. “It’s not called Gay Head anymore, darling.” She crumpled the tissue and turned away from Zack. “If you’ll excuse me. My guests.”

  Daddy turned to the blonde he’d been talking to. “Leah Littlefield, this is my little girl’s fiancé, Zack…” He turned to Zack. “Never did get your last name, son.”

  “Zeller, sir,” said Zack.

  “How appropriate,” cooed Leah. She reached into the neck of her blouse and tugged at a hidden shoulder strap. “You know, of course, I’m sure you know about Zeller’s bolete.”

  “Um, no ma’am.” Zack was confused.

  “The mushroom. Zeller’s bolete.” She sipped a bit of wine and said, “We’re so thrilled about the black trumpets you’ve brought us. I don’t believe any of us have ever tasted them.”

  Maybe this was an opening. Zack said, “I understand you have to be careful about wild mushrooms.”

  “Oh, yes!” breathed Leah. “There’s one perfectly delicious mushroom that you’d better not eat if you drink. A few drinks too many, and it will kill you.” She smiled and with a wave of her hand moved on, murmuring over her shoulder, “Lovely to meet you.” A silvery bell rang, and Samantha’s father led his six guests and Zack to a polished wood table set with tall lighted candles and a centerpiece of white orchids. Isabella directed guests to their seats. Each place setting had a hand-woven white linen place mat, two wineglasses, one short and fat, one tall, and a variety of knives, forks, and spoons that Zack puzzled over during a brief moment when he wasn’t worried about the black trumpets.

  There was a small bowl of cold white soup with a sprinkling of green stuff in front of Zack. He stared down at it, waiting for someone to be the first to pick up a spoon and let him know which one.

  Guests bowed their heads, and Zack did too.

  “Bless us, O Lord,” said Daddy, “and bless this fine food we are about to partake of.”

  The grace went on and on and Zack, too, prayed. “Please, dear God, save me this one time. I promise I’ll go to church. I’ll even marry Sammy…”

  He finished with a hearty “Eat up, folks. You may never have another meal like this.”

  Zack lifted a spoonful of soup but couldn’t open his mouth. He laid the spoon down on the saucer. Conversation buzzed around him. He felt as though he were somewhere else, maybe floating around the ceiling watching the dinner party from above.

  Someone was talking to him. The woman to his left.

  “I’m sorry, my mind was somewhere else.” Zack turned to her, politely tilting his head toward her.

  “I asked where you’d found the black trumpets. They’re quite rare, I understand.” The woman, a plump person with white hair, blue eyes, and a pink embroidered jacket, paused briefly, then went on. “I don’t suppose you want to give away your secrets, do you?”

  “Ah…” Zack was interrupted by a smattering of applause.

  The cook had entered carrying a large serving dish of something smothered in a white sauce with black lumps floating in it.

  “Black trumpets over wild rice,” murmured someone. “How lovely!”

  Zack pushed his chair back and stumbled to his feet. “Sir,” he mumbled to Daddy, who sat at the head of the table to his right. “I don’t feel so good. I’m afraid I’m going to be ill…” and he rushed out of the dining room, staggered across the porch and down the flight of stairs, made it across and down the railroad-tie steps, wrenched open his car door, somehow despite violently shaking hands, got the key in the ignition, started the car up, and fled.

  Hell’s fiends pursued him as he drove back along the rutted dirt road. The sprinkler system that kept the grass green in the center started up again suddenly and dashed water against the underside of his car, startling him. A bird of some kind screeched. The road was endless. He wondered briefly how much money it took to keep the center of the dirt road looking unnaturally natural like that. Then he thought of Samantha’s father, his girlfriend, Isabella, and their six guests sitting around that polished wood table dining on death’s trumpets. He stopped the car, opened the door, leaned out, and emptied his stomach of nothing but bile.

  He had to leave the Island. Now. He certainly couldn’t return to Victoria Trumbull’s upstairs room. But he had to go up to his room to pick up his clothes. The trip to West Tisbury was endless.

  As he turned into Victoria’s drive he saw lights were already on in the kitchen, though it wasn’t dark yet. He backed out and drove around the corner to New Lane, where he could see the lights. He’d wait until they went out. Then he would slip in and gather up his stuff.

  CHAPTER 9

  While Zack was escaping from what he had convinced himself would be eight seriously sick people at Daddy’s dinner, Victoria and Elizabeth were in the kitchen shelling dried beans. Victoria had harvested them from the garden that afternoon. In late summer, after they’d had their fill of green beans, Victoria let the remaining crop dry on the vine until the pods were crisp and papery and individual bean seeds rattled inside.

  Elizabeth picked a dried pod out of the basket on the table, slit it open with her thumbnail, and nudged five perfectly formed yellow-eyed beans into the bowl between them.

  “I wonder how Zack is coping with dinner at Daddy’s.” Elizabeth slit another pod and shook out four rock-hard beans.

  “He was terribly nervous,” replied Victoria.

  Elizabeth indicated the basket a quarter full of the papery-shelled bean pods. “Are those the last that need to be shelled?”

  Victoria nodded. “We’ll have enough to get us through the winter.” She reached for a full pod. “We had Boston baked beans every Saturday night when I was a child. Always made with yellow-eyes.”

  They worked quietly for a while, each thinking her own thoughts.

  After a few minutes, Elizabeth tossed an empty shell at the compost bucket. It missed and fell on the floor. She pushed her chair back and stood. “Samantha’s father wants to show ex-wifey, Samantha’s mother, that Samantha loves him better than she loves her.”

  Victoria looked up again. “That does happen.”

  “Whatever Samantha wants, Samantha gets.”

  “You’ve had some dealings with her?”

  “I’ve seen her around.” Elizabeth bent down and picked up the dropped empty shell.

  “I’ve never known you to be so upset about someone, Elizabeth. What’s the trouble?”

  “The trouble is, Gram, that she’s toying with Zack, and he’s not bright enough to understand.”

  “I thought you didn’t care much for him.”

  Elizabeth pulled her chair closer to the table and sat again. “I don’t.” She reached for a handful of bean pods. “But I hate to see someone with money and power tease someone who has neither money nor brains.” She looked up with anger in her eyes at her grandmother. “It’s like those nasty children who torment cats.”

  “I see.”

  “When he wakes up, something unpleasant is going to happen, believe me,” said Elizabeth.

  “He doesn’t plan to be here much longer now the season is over.”

  “He can’t leave soon enough for me. I can’t stand seeing the drama unfold.”

  Victoria checked her watch. “It’s getting late. He should be home soon.”

  Elizabeth glanced up. “Maybe this is Zack. A car just stopped in the drive.”

  Victoria eased herself out of the chair with a sigh. “I’ve been sitting too long.” She straightened her back and went to the kitchen door.

  * * *

  From where he was parked, Zack saw the police car pull up in front of Victoria’s. All he could think was, The police are looking for me. The guests. Someone must have died. I gotta get out of here. And now. He needed to get his clothes and stuff. He’d have to wait somewhere until it was safe to go back to Mrs. Trumbu
ll’s.

  The ball field. He could walk to her house from there on the bike path.

  He started up his car, turned on his lights, made a careful U-turn, drove to the field, and left the car behind the fire house, where it was partially hidden from the road. He grabbed his flashlight out of the glove compartment. He’d slip into Victoria’s house, get his belongings when it was quiet, then leave the Island on the next boat.

  The bike path curved around behind the ball field before it paralleled the Edgartown Road. He slammed the car door and headed off to Mrs. Trumbull’s. Twilight was turning into night.

  On the path, trees on either side arched over him. The wind was blowing, and the trees cast eerie shadows. He watched his step, careful not to trip over a rough spot camouflaged by moving shadows. On either side the bushes were almost waist high. He’d heard that a lot of the underbrush on the Island was huckleberry and you could eat the berries.

  No way.

  His stomach ached. The hand holding his flashlight trembled.

  He’d touched those death trumpets. He’d picked them and put them in the basket. Maybe they poisoned you by touch, like poison ivy or those Portuguese man-o’-wars. All he knew about stuff that grew in the wild was you’d better not eat anything you found, especially mushrooms, unless you were dead sure what it was. He shivered. Mushrooms could kill.

  With that thought, hot acid rose up in his throat, again, and he spit into the underbrush. Something rustled, and when a small shape scurried across the path, he yelled out. A skunk. That was all he needed, to startle a skunk.

  He waited until his heart slowed down, then walked on.

  How long after eating those black trumpets before Samantha’s father and his guests got sick? Probably not right away. They’d finish dinner, say good night, go home, and in the middle of the night …

  Would they wake up with a horrible pain in the gut? Would they know what caused it?

  That police car showing up at Mrs. Trumbull’s …