Trumpet of Death

by Cynthia Riggs

  A flock of wild turkeys scurried across the path. Farther on, a rabbit hopped out in front of them and then disappeared into the underbrush. The path veered away from the road and dipped into a hollow, where it was sheltered by overhanging trees.

  Suddenly, there was a rush of wings, a loud cawing, and several crows took flight from the undergrowth, startling them.

  Robin stopped abruptly. “What was that?”

  “Crows,” said Victoria. “They’re feeding on something.”

  “That was kinda scary.”

  “Crows are very bright. Let’s see what they found to eat.”

  A heap of leaves had been pushed off to the left side of the path and made a mound about three feet high and almost eight feet long. The crows had uncovered something inside the heap of leaves.

  Robin reached it first. He stared, then stumbled backward in a hurry, his hands up to his face.

  “What is it, Robin?”

  “Something awful.” He looked up at Victoria and she saw that his face had paled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like,” he paused. “Like, somebody’s arm?”

  Victoria approached the mound carefully. He was right. The crows had uncovered an arm. She glanced at Robin, who was holding a hand to his mouth. “We’ve got to call the police. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “No.” His freckles stood out a greenish hue against his pale face. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “No wonder,” Victoria reassured him. “Go back a ways so you don’t disturb anything. Then I want you to run ahead to the ball field and get someone to call 911. If no one’s there yet, call from the fire house. I’ll wait here.”

  * * *

  While Victoria waited, she leaned on her lilac wood stick and studied the pile of leaves. She must be careful not to move around anymore than was absolutely necessary. In the distance, she could hear activity at the ball field. Others had come early. Kids shouted, she heard grown-up voices. Laughter.

  Who had dumped leaves here and why? It was an odd place for a leaf dump. Had someone raked the bicycle path and this was a convenient spot to dump them? She shook her head. Hardly. The trees sheltering the path were mostly oak, and still had their leaves. The leaves on the pile were a lighter color than oak, most likely maple.

  Was that arm still attached to a body? She hated to think of either case, a detached arm or an attached one. Had it, or its body, arrived with the pile of leaves when it had been dumped here? The leaf pile was certainly out of place on the side of the bicycle path.

  She had glanced at Robin’s discovery and had no more than a fleeting image of an obscenely grayish-green bare arm the crows had uncovered in the leaf pile. Bent at the elbow, a hand, forearm, and upper arm. When she sent Robin to get help, she’d assumed it was attached to a person. But when she thought about it, perhaps not.

  She looked at her watch. It would take Robin only a few minutes to get to the ball field. He’d raced off, a terrified rabbit, zigzagging along the path until he was out of sight. Only a minute or two to tell the grown-ups at the ball field what he’d seen. Most of the adults were volunteer firemen, ready for almost any emergency. They’d contact the state police and the police should be here shortly.

  Her paper bag of snacks was light, but her arm was beginning to throb from holding it stiffly. She started to set it on the ground, then decided she’d better not disturb the immediate area around the leaves.

  She didn’t want to think about the arm. It wasn’t visible from where she stood. But the sight was burned into her mind. How would Robin deal with the memory of that? A nightmarish arm. First she’d worried about Robin. Then she’d been afraid he might contaminate what was certainly a crime scene.

  She heard voices.

  A squirrel scampered down the trunk of one of the oak trees, in quick starts and stops headed for the leaves.

  “No!” Victoria called out. “Get away!” She looked for something to toss at the squirrel, but it had stopped. It stood on its haunches, took a quick look at Victoria, and scurried back up the tree.

  She heard a chickadee call “pee-wee.” Voices were louder and pounding footsteps approached. Three men raced toward her.

  She called out, “I haven’t moved since we discovered…”

  The men halted abruptly. The leader, Ira Bodman, called out to her. “The state cops are on their way, Mrs. Trumbull. They’ll be here momentarily.” He paused. “How’re you doing?”

  “Fine,” said Victoria.

  “We’ll take over from here, unless, I mean, I know you work with the West Tisbury police…”

  “I’ll wait here,” said Victoria. “But I’d like to sit down.”

  Ira beckoned to the other two. “One of you go back quick and get a folding chair.”

  “I’ll go,” said the younger of the two and raced off.

  He was back within minutes, and Victoria seated herself with a sigh to await the state police. It wasn’t long before they arrived.

  “Morning, Mrs. Trumbull.” Sergeant John Smalley touched his fingers to his hat. Smalley was a big man, a former football player who’d kept in pretty good shape. “We contacted Chief O’Neill. She’s on her way.” He motioned to his two troopers. “Tim, you and Ben start clearing the leaves away. You know the drill, a few leaves at a time, careful not to disturb anything. Expose enough of the body or whatever we’ve got so Doc Jeffers can do his work.”

  It was a relief to sit after standing for such a long time. She was on the opposite side of the path from the body, so she could watch the troopers work, both of whom she’d known since they were children. When they had cleared enough leaves, she could tell the arm was attached to a body, and when a not so faint unpleasant odor drifted her way, she knew the body had been dead for some time. She couldn’t tell whether it was male or female, young or not so young.

  Smalley and the troopers took photos and measurements, speaking so quietly she couldn’t hear what they said, then Smalley left.

  Casey arrived in uniform, tan trousers and short-sleeved white shirt, with the town insignia on one arm. Her heavy utility belt with its arsenal of police paraphernalia hung low on her hips. She had parked at the ball field and walked to the site.

  “Now what, Victoria?” Casey hoisted the heavy belt into place.

  “Robin White and I were walking to the ball field where he’s to play a softball match this morning. When we heard crows cawing he investigated.” Victoria shifted on the uncomfortable log. “A horrible experience. He was terribly upset.”

  “I can imagine. How old is he, eleven?”

  “Yes.”

  Casey stood next to Victoria. There was a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. She brushed her hair away from her face.

  On the other side of the path, the pile of leaves now formed a nest around the body. The body was distorted by death. It was dressed in ragged jeans and T-shirt. The arm Robin had seen was limp, flopped down on a bloated stomach. The face was grotesque. How could anyone identify this. Victoria looked away.

  The two troopers stood some distance from the body.

  “We’ll keep watch until Doc Jeffers shows up,” said Casey.

  CHAPTER 11

  Doc Jeffers, the medical examiner this week, arrived on his Harley within a half-hour. He swung one leg over the seat of his bike, stood up, and stretched. He was tall and broad shouldered with thick arm muscles and looked more like a motorcycle mechanic than the number one doctor at the hospital.

  “Morning, Mrs. Trumbull.” He tugged off his leather motorcycle gauntlets and stuffed them into his pockets. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” She nodded at the exposed body.

  Doc Jeffers stepped across the bike path just as Sergeant Smalley returned along with Ira Bodman.

  “Any identification, John?” Doc Jeffers asked.

  “Didn’t check,” Smalley replied.

  The doc pulled on latex gloves, tugged an iPhone on a cord out from under
his shirt, knelt next to the body, and spoke into the phone. “Victim is in bad shape. Face especially.” He checked the head, throat, and chest. Examined lower body and limbs. “Young woman, early twenties, probably in good physical condition. Blow to the back of the head. Dead for three, four days. Crows worked on her. That’s about it.” He checked her jeans pockets, the only obvious place where she might have had some ID.

  “Nothing, I suppose,” said Smalley.

  “Nope. Even her own mother would have trouble recognizing her.” He stood, tucked the iPhone back into his shirt, peeled off his gloves, and turned to the state troopers. “Not likely she did that to herself.” He snapped his medical bag shut. “I can pronounce her dead with reasonable assurance.”

  No one laughed.

  “You want to phone Toby or shall I?” Doc Jeffers called out to Smalley, who was on the other side of the leaf pile.

  Toby owned the mortuary and his hearse would be used to carry the girl’s body off-Island for autopsy.

  “We’ll take care of it, Doc,” said Smalley.

  After the medical examiner left, Ira held a hand out to Victoria, and she got up stiffly from her folding chair. She’d been pondering life and death. A young woman. The arm she’d seen had belonged to a girl who’d had a full lifetime ahead of her.

  “You okay, Mrs. Trumbull?” asked Ira.

  “Not really.” Victoria nodded toward the leaf pile and the body resting there. “I’m thinking about her.”

  “Yeah,” said Ira. “Why her, right?”

  Victoria ached from sitting still. She tried stretching the way she’d seen runners stretch. It helped slightly. “I suppose we’d better go back to the ball field. Will you go ahead with the game?”

  “Yup. Best thing for the kids.”

  “Are you going to tell them about the body?”

  Ira kicked an acorn out of the path. “They already know. Word travels fast. I’m sure Robin told them what he saw, and I’ll give them what information we have. They can take it. They’re good kids.”

  Victoria nodded. Robin was likely the center of attention now, his queasy stomach settled by a new sense of celebrity.

  * * *

  At the ball field, Tim Eldredge, one of the state troopers, was questioning Robin, and a group of curious boys and grownups stood back some distance, watching.

  Tim looked up. “Hello, Mrs. Trumbull. Robin, here, had the presence of mind to write down the plate number of a car parked here last night. Black Volkswagen convertible, lot of duct tape.”

  Robin hopped from one foot to another. “He was acting really weird.” He wrinkled his nose. “And sweating.”

  Tim, who looked as though he could be Robin’s older brother, patted Robin on the back. “Good work.” He turned to Victoria. “Ben and Adam are searching for the car now. We alerted the Steamship Authority to be on the lookout. Could be the driver has nothing to do with the body, but we’d like to rule him out.”

  “A black Volkswagen convertible held together with duct tape,” Victoria said. “My tenant, Zack, drives a car like that.”

  * * *

  Zack awoke with a start. Where was he? Someone was rapping on his misted window. He sat up, bumping his head on the dashboard. Rubbed his eyes. Wiped drool from his mouth. He ached. The sun was high. The figure at the window was backlit, a dark silhouette.

  What time was it? Late. It all came back to him in a rush. He had to get off this Island. He had to be on that morning boat.

  Damnation. Six a.m. was long past. He’d also missed his eight o’clock reservation.

  Another rap.

  A state trooper. Good God!

  He lowered his window.

  “I’d like to see some ID, buddy.” The trooper held out his hand.

  “What is it?” asked Zack. “What’s the matter?”

  The trooper continued to hold out his hand.

  Where was his wallet? He’d taken it out of his back pocket while he tried to find some comfortable position in the front seat. Where was it? The glove compartment. He reached toward it.

  “Not so fast.” The trooper jerked the door open.

  “My wallet. My driver’s license,” mumbled Zack.

  “Out of the car, please.”

  “What?”

  The trooper stepped back and Zack saw a second cop and behind the second cop a squad car with flashing blue lights.

  He was trapped. They’d reported him.

  He swung his legs out, set his feet on the macadam, and eased himself to a standing position.

  “Turn around, please, hands on the car.”

  Zack obeyed.

  The trooper patted him down.

  Zack twisted his head around. “I didn’t mean—”

  A second trooper interrupted him. “Sir, we simply want to take you to the county jail to question you.”

  “Are all of them—”

  “I wouldn’t say anything at this time, sir, if I were you,” said the trooper.

  The first trooper went around to the passenger side, opened the glove compartment, and handed Zack his wallet.

  The second trooper said, “Come with us, please. You want to lock up your car?”

  Zack tucked his wallet into his back pocket and rubbed his beard. “I guess not. The locks don’t work.”

  * * *

  After the noonday meal on Saturday, Phil Smith, owner of the Beetlebung Café where Zack washed dishes, was in the kitchen clearing up the luncheon mess. He checked his watch. Zack was late. He wasn’t fond of the boy, half-stoned half the time. But, he had to admit, Zack was a reliable worker.

  Will Osborne, Zack’s fellow dishwasher, pushed through the swinging kitchen door with a tray of dirty dishes.

  “You hear from Zack?” Smith asked. “Not like him to be late.”

  “I’ll call the place he’s staying. He could be sick. I saw him last night at Eberhardt’s dinner, and he looked like hell.”

  “Yeah, I’d appreciate that.” Smith rolled up his sleeves, took off his watch and put it on the windowsill above the sink and then started the tedious process of scraping, rinsing, and stacking dishes in the dishwasher.

  He looked up when Will returned. “Well?”

  “Mrs. Trumbull hasn’t seen Zack since he left for the dinner last night.”

  “Is his car at her place?”

  Will shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Strange.” Smith gestured at the full sink. “Help me with these.”

  “No problem,” said Will, rolling up his own sleeves.

  Smith turned on the hot water spray full blast and sloshed it over the dishes. “I hope he’s got a damn good excuse. What was he doing at the Eberhardt’s?”

  “He told me he’s engaged to Samantha, Eberhardt’s daughter.” Will began stacking plates upright in the dishwasher.

  “Samantha Eberhardt engaged?” Smith laughed. “I doubt it.” He turned back to the dishes. “Piece of work, that girl.”

  * * *

  While Will Osborne and Phil Smith were wondering where Zack was, Bruno Eberhardt was wondering the same thing. Furthermore, he was wondering where his daughter was. She should be home by now.

  He’d gotten no response to messages he left on her voicemail. Since she’d said she’d be visiting friends off-Island, he hadn’t expected her to call as often as usual.

  He had an uneasy feeling that his unpredictable daughter had run off with Zack. That would explain why Zack was missing. It would be like her. Not the first time she’d run off with some guy and he’d had to save her from something stupid, like getting married.

  He gave up trying to reach her by phone and drove to the house she was renting. Correction: that he was renting for her. Her car was gone, as he expected. She’d have taken it off-Island, of course.

  As always, the place was a mess. Clothes strewn around, towels dropped on the bathroom floor, crumpled tissues on the counter. God, what disaster that girl left. Half-full wine bottle on the kitchen counter. Two wineglasses with a
sludge of wine, buzzing with fruit flies. Week-old dirty dishes in and around the sink. He’d told her he’d pay for his cleaning woman to come twice a week. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t brought up this way.

  He started to clean, but gave up before he made much of a dent. At least he’d washed the dishes, put the wine in the fridge, picked her clothes off the floor and piled them on her unmade bed.

  He paused in front of the bed, shrugged, and looked out over Vineyard Sound. White sailboats, white gulls. The Elizabeth Islands seemed close today. Brilliant blue sky.

  The only available chair had a stack of magazines and clothing on it. He lifted the stuff off, moved the chair closer to the large window, and sat down with a sigh. He loved that daughter of his, so much like him in so many ways. Wild. By her age, though, she ought to have settled down. He had by then.

  He missed her. At least she could have called.

  A hawk soared overhead, distracting him. Suddenly, several crows tore after it, screaming their raucous “Caw! Caw! Caw!” A murder of crows, that’s what they called a flock. Fascinated, he watched as the hawk dove and climbed to get away from his tormenters. Farther and farther away they flew until the caw-cawing of the crows faded, and they were too far away for him to see.

  He didn’t like the idea of Samantha not answering her phone.

  He’d tried to track down some of her friends, but he didn’t know where to start. All he knew were first names of a few of her Island friends. He didn’t know any of her off-Island friends.

  Well, she certainly had a bunch of pals. He smiled at the thought. A popular girl. What in hell was the matter with Isabella that she didn’t like Sammy? Calling his baby girl a slut. Isabella was jealous, that was the problem. Sammy, obviously, didn’t like Isabella. That was enough to send her away. He’d take care of that when he got home.

  He’d met a couple of guys Sammy dated. Decent enough. Now he’d met Zack. The kid had good manners. Dressed right. He thought about the black trumpets. Was Sammy pulling one of her cute tricks, telling him Zack was trying to poison her?