He smiled. He had a plan he could deal with unfolding before him. Now to find how much time he had before Zack was moved.
CHAPTER 16
Early on Sunday morning the phone rang. Victoria, dressed in her Sunday churchgoing clothes, had just started breakfast. She turned off the burner and, holding a spatula, went into the cookroom to answer.
“Casey here, Victoria. Calling about the parsonage fire investigation.”
“Any news?”
“They found a piece of jewelry in the ashes. A wampum necklace.”
Victoria set the spatula down on the table. “How did it survive such a devastating fire?”
“Fires are freaky,” said Casey. “They skip over stuff you’d think would burn and burn stuff you’d think wouldn’t. They found the necklace under a pile of newspapers. The wampum pieces are twined in copper wire and attached to a leather lace. Definitely a one-of-a-kind piece of jewelry.”
“The newspapers didn’t burn?” Victoria was still standing. She moved her chair closer and leaned on it.
“The top layers were scorched, but no, the papers didn’t burn.”
“Do you know who the necklace belonged to?”
“This is why I called you.”
Victoria could hear papers rustling on Casey’s desk.
“Do you have any thoughts, Victoria, about who might have owned a wampum necklace like that? Asking you is a long shot because everybody’s into wampum jewelry these days.”
“The jewelry is expensive, which narrows the field a bit.” Victoria fished an envelope out of the wastepaper basket and selected a pen from the jar on the table. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
They disconnected.
Victoria sat down and turned to face the view of the village. The view always calmed her. From the window, she could see the church steeple rising above the trees on the distant hillside. Sunlight glinted on the weathervane on top of the steeple, and she could almost make out the hands of the clock. The church had been the town center when she was a child. It held pleasant memories of music and the special smell of the worn hymnals, of the vases of flowers in season or bare branches in winter that flanked the altar. Of the long sermons she hadn’t understood, her grandmother holding her small hand and patting it in sympathy. The warm homemade cookies and punch in the parish hall afterward.
She looked at her watch. The bell would ring in about an hour, summoning her to church.
This peaceful village shouldn’t be the setting for the deaths of two young people and the destruction of a treasured building.
She returned to her notes.
She had a feeling that Sebastian’s death and Samantha’s death were connected. After church, she would write down all the questions she could think of. Answers might then come.
* * *
At Beetlebung Café, where Zack worked, Phil Smith, the owner, and Will Osborne, Zack’s fellow dishwasher, were in the kitchen clearing up the Sunday luncheon mess and getting ready for supper.
“I found out why we haven’t seen Zack,” said Will. “He’s in jail.” Will was scraping plates and stacking them in the dishwasher.
“Yeah?” said Phil. “Drugs?”
“Nope,” said Will. “You’ll never guess.”
Phil sighed. “I’m sick of guessing.”
“Murder.”
“Murder? Who’d he kill?”
“Samantha.”
Phil said nothing. He was sorting through recipe cards.
“I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him,” said Will, continuing to load the dishwasher. “Samantha worked here at one time, didn’t she?”
Phil was sitting at the prep table. “Yeah.” He scowled and continued to sort through recipes.
Will glanced over at his boss. “What’s your problem? I asked a simple question.” He turned back to the dirty dishes.
Phil shoved the recipes aside. He stood up, hands on his hips. “Yeah. I knew Samantha. Answer your question?”
“Okay, okay.” Will continued to load the machine. “Zack introduced me to her when he started going with her. Not a bad looker. Her old man’s loaded.” He scraped leftovers off a plate and rinsed it with the spray. “I tended bar at his dinner party, you know. He introduced Zack to everyone as Samantha’s fiancé.”
Phil continued to sort recipes, setting some aside.
“The cook brought out some gourmet dish,” said Will, “and Zack practically shit his pants getting out of there. Said he was sick. Looked it.”
“Just shut up, will you?”
Will turned off the spray. “I don’t think Zack killed her, is all. He said he was breaking up with her, I said good for you, and then they must have made up, since her old man introduces him as Samantha’s fiancé.”
Phil slapped a card on the table.
“What’s with you, anyhow?” asked Will.
“What’s with me,” said Phil, turning away, “is I don’t want to hear any more about her.”
Will shifted back to the sink. “All I was saying is I don’t see Zack killing her. Killing anyone, for that matter.”
“Everyone can kill, given the right circumstances,” said Phil. “Change the subject, will you?” He gathered up the stack of recipe cards. “Bluefish special tonight. Fries, coleslaw, pureed carrots.”
“I’ll take care of the coleslaw. Want onions in it this time?”
“Leave them out. Too many diners don’t like raw onions.”
Will grinned. “Hot date after dinner, that’s why.” He finished loading the dishwasher and turned it on. Over the sound of rushing water, he said, “How come you don’t want to talk about Samantha?”
“For God’s sake, can’t you leave it alone?” Phil headed toward the door, but stopped before he opened it and turned to Will. “Samantha Eberhardt is dead. Dead, understand? She got what was coming to her. I, for one, am not going to mourn her loss.”
Will glanced at him. “Did you kill her?”
“Did I kill her?” Phil laughed. “I had every reason to. Get back to work, will you?”
* * *
The forensics team went back to work at Samantha’s cottage on Sunday morning. They examined every centimeter of floor, walls, and ceiling, probed into every crack and cranny, collected every particle of dust and dirt no matter how minute. For the most part, the results were discouraging. The house had been cleaned, and cleaned thoroughly. However, they did collect fingerprints from items in the refrigerator, including an almost empty wine bottle.
“It’s something,” said Killdeer, holding the bottle with padded forceps high up on the neck where no fingerprints had been detected. “Probably the cleaning woman’s fingerprints. But who knows.”
* * *
Samantha’s Mini Cooper was found parked at the Park and Ride lot where Zack had spent Friday night. The forensics team went over her car in great detail.
“Anything?” asked Smalley.
Killdeer snapped his chewing gum and thrust his hands into his pockets. “Nope.”
“Fingerprints?”
“The steering wheel was wiped clean. Rearview mirror, clean. Anything the perp might have touched, clean. All other prints belong to the girl.”
* * *
On Sunday morning Bruno Eberhardt drove into Edgartown to check out the jail. Officially it was the County of Dukes County House of Corrections. He’d passed the building dozens of times, thinking it was one of the captains’ houses that lined Main Street, never realizing what it was.
He parked near the tall white Whaling Church and walked back to the jail. Several people he didn’t recognize offered condolences. He bowed his head and kept walking. How could they have learned about his baby girl so soon?
He turned down a side street to check out the back of the building. Hardly high security, but then it usually housed local transgressors, not murderers. Once Zack was indicted, he’d be transferred to a high-security facility. Eberhardt decided he would have enough time to carry out his plans.
&
nbsp; At the mortuary he’d shouted at Sergeant Smalley, told him he would kill Zack if he got his hands on him. If Smalley had passed on his threat to the sheriff, he, Eberhardt, would be in trouble. But Smalley was an Island cop, likely to understand and ignore a father’s rage at the murder of his child, dismiss his angry threats.
Eberhardt walked back to his Jaguar and got in. He’d intended to drive home, but instead decided to return to Samantha’s place. At some point he would have to go through her belongings, sort them out, feel them, smell them, grieve over them, and curse the man who’d cut her life short.
He drove back along the Edgartown Road, past the West Tisbury firehouse and the low spot near the bike path where they’d found her. He didn’t want to see that. Her final resting place. They hadn’t given him any details of her death beyond the fact that she’d been hit with some blunt object and didn’t suffer. How did they know? He supposed they had to say that. Was it comforting to think your baby girl didn’t suffer while some monster killed her?
He drove on, past Mrs. Trumbull’s house, where the monster had lived. Through the village, with its church, library, and art gallery. To the hills and stone walls of Chilmark.
He turned onto the dirt road that led to her drive. He would spend a quiet time with her possessions. He lowered his window to take in the smell of sun-warmed pine and the sound of chewinks scratching in the oak leaves. The drive to her place had always been calming. He heard a bell buoy in the distance. A last turn up her rutted road and he would see her house.
But as he made the turn, a parked police vehicle blocked the road. He jammed on the brake.
A sturdy-looking cop got out and strode over to him. “May I see some identification, sir.”
Eberhardt blurted out, “What are you talking about? This is my daughter’s house.”
“Sorry, sir. No unauthorized persons are permitted access. The area is a crime scene, sir.”
“This is my daughter’s house. I’m her father—”
“Yes, sir.”
Eberhardt smacked his steering wheel. “I intend to spend some quiet time there—”
“I’m sorry, sir. You can’t enter until the police are through with their work.”
Eberhardt felt blood rush to his head. “That creep murdered her. We know who killed her. Why in hell are you doing this to me?”
“This is a crime scene, sir,” repeated the cop.
“What are you doing? Think it will bring her back to me, pawing through her things? That what you think?”
The cop shook his head. “We can understand how you feel, sir.”
“The hell you can.” Eberhardt took a deep breath. “You hope to find evidence to clear him, that it?” He shook his head. “Make sure his rights are protected. What about me?” He pounded his chest. “What about my rights? Me, her father. What about that, hey?”
“Yes, sir.” The cop took a step back. “I understand, sir.”
“You don’t understand one goddamned thing.” Eberhardt felt a throbbing in his head.
“Sergeant Smalley will notify you when you can return, sir.” The cop looked up. “Sir, an official vehicle needs to get past you.”
Eberhardt, defeated, backed his car into a wide space in the dirt road and turned away. The vehicle passed him. There was an official seal on the door. Once it passed, he headed away from Samantha’s house and toward his own place.
Before he could return, every item she owned, had touched, had looked at, would be pawed over, examined, dusted for fingerprints, photographed. Every essence of her would be destroyed by these officials coldly seeking, what? Truth?
Truth. What was truth?
He’d lost her a second time. They would wipe out every last remaining vestige of his daughter.
He had a second, horrible thought. He’d been through her house himself and it must have been after she was … He couldn’t bring himself to think the word. He’d touched things of hers, held them, moved them. Cleaned up her dishes. Left his own fingerprints. Had he obliterated the fingerprints of Zack, her killer?
Oh, God! He’d forgotten. He’d asked Maria to clean the house. He told her he’d give her extra to clean real well. She cleaned the operating rooms at the hospital. She’d have done a thorough job.
He lowered his head until it touched the steering wheel and moaned.
That bastard will pay.
CHAPTER 17
It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that Victoria could get back to work. After an hour of pondering, all she had on the back of her envelope were questions. No answers.
In a way, Casey was right. She mustn’t meddle in the business of trained investigators. She could too easily damage whatever case they were hoping to build.
But she, Victoria, was in the unusual position of being semi-official, and that by courtesy. She wasn’t obliged to answer to anyone. Furthermore, she knew more about the Island and the ways of its inhabitants than any official she could think of.
So it behooved her to investigate in her own way, taking a different path from that of the others.
She went back to her notes.
How did the wampum necklace figure in this, if at all?
It was ridiculous to think that Zack had killed Samantha, yet Zack had admitted to every official who’d listen to him that he’d planned to poison her. Sicken her. Abort the pregnancy, if there was one, teach her a lesson if there wasn’t. She knew him well enough to know there was no way he could possibly have pulled off her killing.
Where had Samantha been killed? In her house? The forensics team would determine that. She made a note to ask Casey what evidence the forensics people had found.
Then there was the leaf pile in which Samantha’s body had been concealed. The pile was on the left side of the bicycle path, as one headed toward Edgartown, in a slight hollow, created by glacial water runoff. When, during the past four days, had her body, along with the leaves, gotten to the bike path? And how? Certainly not by car. The leaf pile was large. Had the vehicle, a dump truck or pickup, backed up onto the bike path and unloaded the leaves?
Unloading a pickup would mean shoveling everything out of the back. A tedious job. A dump truck would have been less trouble, but probably more noticeable. Although there were a lot of landscaping and construction dump trucks on Island roads these days.
Something else about the leaf pile puzzled her. This was early September and autumn leaves had not yet begun to fall. It would be unusual to see a landscaper transporting fallen leaves now.
The leaves she had seen in the pile seemed to be mostly maple, a lighter color, broader shape, and flimsier than oak, and quite different from beech. The maples still held their late-summer green leaves. The leaves in the pile were a golden tan, and so must have been from the previous fall. She knew, from adding maple leaves to her compost heaps, that they disintegrated more readily than other leaves.
Therefore, the leaves in Samantha’s burial pile had to have been protected by something, sheltered from wind and rain. The source of the leaf pile would have to be found. She made a note.
The mechanics of depositing that load, right there, also puzzled her. Why there? At this time of year, early September, someone surely would have seen a dump truck backing onto the bicycle path. The load would have been covered by a tarp, of course. That was the law. So it wouldn’t have been obvious to passing cars that the truck was carrying not only leaves, but a body.
She left the question of leaves, and moved on to the question of Samantha’s car. It had been found at the Park and Ride lot. That meant she probably had not been killed in her house. She might have followed someone she trusted to a place where he then killed her, placed her body in the load of leaves, and dumped the load by the bicycle path.
Victoria kept coming back to the question, Why there? Why dump a body in that particular spot? She could think of a dozen places on the Island where a killer might leave a body and it would never be found. Did he have to get rid of the load quickly for some reason?
* * *
Her immediate concern was to clear Zack by finding Samantha’s killer. She would put aside investigating Sebastian’s death and the parsonage fire until she knew more.
She would start by talking to the parents whose teenagers had been caught up in Samantha’s net, but she didn’t know who they might be. She decided to ask the Alley’s porch regulars, who usually convened after work, and who knew more about Island intrigues than anyone else she was acquainted with.
* * *
Monday afternoon, Victoria and Elizabeth went to Alley’s to pick up their mail. They went later than usual to be sure the porch sitters were there.
Sarah Germaine was already sitting on her bench next to a sign that read CANNED PEAS. She had come from tribal headquarters, where she worked, and she was wearing a white T-shirt with TWO BRAVE HAULERS printed in bright red above a drawing of some kind.
Victoria stopped to examine the drawing.
“Hey, Mrs. Trumbull.” Sarah pulled out her shirt so Victoria could see the picture better. It depicted a Wampanoag brave carrying a piano on one shoulder while a second Wampanoag rode on the other shoulder playing the piano.
Victoria laughed.
“Have a seat.” Sarah smoothed her shirt back into place and moved over to make room for her. “They’re actually wicked strong, you know. Bucky and his older brother Leo. And they’re pretty careful.”
Victoria seated herself beside Sarah. “Aren’t they grandsons of Charity Minnowfish? She was one of my best friends in school.”
“I think they’re great-grandsons.”
Joe shifted slightly against the porch support, where he was standing.
“Good afternoon, Joe.” Victoria fanned herself with a letter she had been about to mail. “A warm day for September.”
“Can I get you a Coke?” Sarah stood.
“Thank you. That would hit the spot.”
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