“I’m making a sandwich. What did you say to him?”
“I told him Zack couldn’t possibly be the killer and I asked him to help me find the real killer.”
“You asked him what?” Elizabeth carried her sandwich into the cookroom and sat down. “You’re not serious about asking for his help to clear Zack? And he agreed?”
“Not to clear Zack, to find the killer.”
Elizabeth shook her head.
Victoria said, “Bruno Eberhardt has money and connections.”
Elizabeth wiped her mouth. “What did Abilene have to say?”
“She’s devastated by Samantha’s death. She says she was one of the few people who understood Samantha.”
“Don’t trust Abilene, either. She’s steel inside that sweet exterior. She hated Samantha.”
“Abilene reminds me so much of her grandmother.”
“Abilene isn’t her grandmother,” said Elizabeth.
“I hope you’re wrong, Elizabeth, about both Bruno and Abilene.”
“We’ll see, Gram.” Elizabeth took her plate into the kitchen and rinsed it. “Look who was right about Zack.”
“Point taken,” admitted Victoria.
CHAPTER 21
When Bruno Eberhardt drove away from Victoria Trumbull’s he wondered what there was about the old lady that had induced him to open up to her? She was about the same age as his dead mother, but she bore no resemblance to his mother, who’d been a remote and feeble presence in his life. Surely he hadn’t gone to Victoria Trumbull in his time of desperate need looking for a mother substitute.
Why on God’s green earth had he called on her? And how had she conned him into agreeing to help her with her sleuthing? He wasn’t quite sure what had happened back there.
He scarcely noticed his surroundings. The warm day had given way to a chilly night and dew formed a gray mist on his windshield. He turned on the wipers.
He shook his head to clear it. He’d lost control of himself there at Mrs. Trumbull’s. He couldn’t recall ever before needing anyone, let alone a listener. She’d listened to him. But he didn’t much like what she had to say. She was wrong about Zack Zeller.
A skunk sauntered into the road from the grassy edge. Eberhardt was deep in his misery and swerved automatically, without being aware that he had. The skunk hurried off. An owl flew low in front of him, almost touching the car. He drove on.
Sammy. He slapped the steering wheel. Dead. She was gone. That boy, that kid, had intended to kill her. And now she was dead.
Why in hell would Mrs. Trumbull defend him? And somehow, she’d twisted things around so he’d agreed to work with her. To find the killer. Well, Mrs. Trumbull, I know who the killer is. I’ll work with you, Mrs. Trumbull, for the reason you gave. It’s a distraction from the anger that’s eating me up. I’m a street fighter. You might be a local heavyweight, but I know how to turn my opponent’s weight to my advantage. I’ll get that kid if it’s the last thing I do.
The straight road of West Tisbury gave way to the hills and curves of Chilmark and he reached his turnoff. No cars had passed him. The sprinklers were on in the center of his rutted road, and the spray of water shushed against the underside of his car.
The last turn and there was his house, looking like an ad for the architect who’d designed it. Every light in every window was on, blasting out lumens in an attempt to look welcoming. Well, it didn’t look welcoming. He’d told Isabella to stop lighting up the house like that. It looked like a cheap hotel. Indian from Gay Head. She loved to play that card calling herself Native American from Aquinnah.
She was probably in bed with a half-empty box of chocolates next to her. With all the lights on to greet him. On purpose. At one time he’d thought she was so exotic, slender, with that long, sexy, black hair and those green, slanted eyes. Now, all he could envision was her lying down on the rumpled bed with a box of chocolates. She’d put on weight, and it didn’t look good on her. He was tired of her. Sammy hated her. A good excuse to evict her. Sammy was always telling him that Isabella was using him. He knew she was, and he was fed up with her. She’d have to go.
The garage doors opened automatically at his approach and he drove in, left the key in the ignition after turning it off, and went out of the garage through the side door.
As he went up the steps onto the porch he had a jarring feeling that something was wrong. He approached the front door cautiously, pressed down the thumb-latch, stood back, and shoved the door open with his foot.
The door swung inward.
He glanced around. Nothing was out of place that he could see. It would be like Isabella to turn on all the lights to aggravate him. Before going upstairs to her bedroom, he checked the great room, the dining room where they’d had that memorable dinner of black trumpets. The kitchen. The breakfast room. The study. The library.
Everything was brightly illuminated. Everything was still.
That was why he felt uneasy. The TV was usually blaring, tuned in to a soap or a shopping channel.
He headed up the stairs and went into her bedroom. Not there.
“Isabella?” he called out.
No answer.
“Isabella!” he shouted.
Nothing.
He checked the other bedrooms, the bathrooms. Her bathroom was its usual mess. No sign of her. He went back downstairs and through all the rooms. No note. She hadn’t taken one of the cars, he’d have noticed that, even in his misery.
He went into the dining room again and sat down. Had she gone off with some girlfriend unexpectedly? Some emergency? Had she taken anything with her?
He went upstairs again and checked her closet. Empty. The floor of the closet was littered with discarded coat hangers. Her suitcases. Gone. He went into her bathroom again. Wet towels on the floor. An empty lotion bottle dropped in the basin. A clutter of tissues tossed toward the wastebasket. A sprinkling of powder. He opened the cabinet over the sink. Her toiletries were gone.
So. She’d walked out on him. Ironic. He laughed. Just when he was going to throw her out. She’d thumbed her nose at him, lighting up the house in defiance.
She hadn’t taken a car. They were all there in the garage. Someone had picked her up.
During the two years they’d been together, he’d always given her whatever she asked for, paid her credit card bills. Never gave her money. She had no money of her own.
He stood. Search for the money.
He kept an emergency supply of cash in his study, fifty thousand dollars, in a safe that was a discouragement against a casual burglary, not a high-tech deterrent.
He opened the door to his study and stopped. The Doug Kent painting, a ruse that any self-respecting burglar would look behind, was facedown on the floor. The combination lock was hanging by a couple of red and black wires from the open door of the safe. The door itself was a torn and blackened piece of metal hanging from one hinge with a fluff of insulation leaking out of it.
And, of course, the cash was gone. So was some damned expensive jewelry he’d given her during their two years together.
He laughed. The goddamned bitch had gone to all that trouble. He’d have given her fifty thousand to pack up and leave.
Who the hell was her accomplice? Some guy with a car and a knowledge of burglary.
Call the cops?
No.
He’d seen enough of cops to last a lifetime. He’d deal with this on his own.
* * *
Victoria slept late Tuesday, the morning following her talks with Abilene Butler and Bruno Eberhardt. She awoke to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon cooking. Such good aromas. All was well, and she would solve the murder of Bruno’s daughter, and he would help her. If Samantha’s murder was tied in with Sebastian’s death, and she was sure it was, she would unravel the snarled facts.
Her granddaughter hadn’t been so sanguine about Bruno’s cooperation. But Victoria believed she understood people, and she would bring him around.
She d
ressed hurriedly in her corduroy slacks and a rose-colored turtleneck shirt, selected a necklace of polished beach stones in shades of rose that matched her shirt, and headed for the stairs.
By the time she got downstairs, Elizabeth had set the table and was sliding a pan of blueberry muffins out of the oven.
“Morning, Gram.”
“Almost afternoon.” Victoria glanced at her watch.
“It’s only nine thirty. You had a full day yesterday. Are you meeting with more of Samantha’s fans today?”
Victoria seated herself in her armchair, where she could watch the bird feeder. “Connie Burrowes and Anderson Jones this afternoon, probably after five o’clock. I know both by sight, but that’s all.” She spread her napkin on her lap. “Do you know either of them?”
“I know Connie and her daughter, Brooke, slightly.” Elizabeth passed the warm muffins to her grandmother. “Connie teaches fifth grade at the Charter School. Last spring I gave a talk to her class about working in the harbor. She wanted me to let the girls in her class know they can work at any kind of job they want.”
“Does Brooke attend the Charter School?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “She’s at the Regional High, either a sophomore or a junior.”
“What do you know about Brooke?”
“You mean, how did Samantha screw her up?”
Victoria nodded. “Were you aware of anything amiss?”
“Sort of. Mostly hearsay. Apparently Samantha conned a small group of girls into a relationship with a local drug dealer.”
“What sort of relationship?”
“I don’t think it was sex, Gram.” Elizabeth picked up a piece of bacon. “Samantha could be persuasive. She introduced the girls to this exciting and forbidden drug scene and the characters who buy and sell drugs. The girls changed, all of them, from normal, nice kids to these fake sophisticates. Some of them started smoking, thinking it was cool, and who knows what else.” She paused. “Maybe sex.” She bit off a piece of the bacon. “Possibly sex. Probably sex.”
“What about Anderson Jones?” Victoria took a sip of her coffee.
“I don’t know much about Mr. Jones. He’s African American, lives in Oak Bluffs, and runs a moped rental place in the summer. I have no idea what he does in the winter.”
“And his son?” asked Victoria. “What about him?”
“I didn’t even know he had a son.” Elizabeth checked her watch. “Gotta run.” She dropped her napkin onto the table and stood. “See you this afternoon.” She carried her dishes into the kitchen. A moment later the screen door slammed and Victoria heard the car start up.
She finished breakfast slowly, savoring the muffin, the coffee, the eggs, and thought about her meeting later this afternoon. Between now and then, she had work to do, planning how best to use Bruno Eberhardt.
* * *
While Victoria was planning her day, Isabella Minnowfish, Bruno Eberhardt’s erstwhile live-in girlfriend, was unpacking one of her suitcases in her friend, Tank’s, apartment in the tribal housing complex in Aquinnah.
Tank watched from the bed they’d shared the previous night, feet crossed, hands behind his head, as she hung up one dress after another in his closet, shoving his scanty wardrobe of work pants and shirts to one side. She lined up five pairs of high-heeled shoes on the floor next to his scuffed work boots, and then turned to look at his bureau.
“You can have the second and third drawers. I cleaned them out for you,” he said. “Where you gonna wear those clothes around here? You’ll get laughed out of town.”
Isabella pouted. “I like pretty things.”
“Me too, Izzy.” Tank made a kissy sound. “That’s you. You’re a lot prettier now you put some meat around your bones.”
She turned to him. “God, you romantic hunk, you.”
He waved a massive hand at the closet. “Didn’t that guy buy you any real clothes? You got nowhere to wear that stuff.”
“I haven’t finished unpacking.”
“Yeah, sure. I forgot the dozen suitcases.”
“Only four, stupid.”
Tank got up off the bed and went toward her. “Time to get serious, babe. He’s not gonna be real happy when he sees his safe.”
“He’s not going to call the cops. Trust me.”
“Maybe not, but he’s likely to show up here with some of his buddies.”
“He won’t come here.”
“Yeah. Maybe just send the buddies.”
Isabella closed the suitcase she’d unpacked with a snap and gestured to the second suitcase in line. “Pass me that, will you?”
He handed it to her. “He knows where you lived before you took up with him.”
“You know my brothers.” She glanced at him with a broad smile.
“Yeah. There’s that. ‘Two Brave Haulers.’”
“And, honeybunch, there’s you to protect me.”
“Ugh. Me big brave. Braver than Bucky and Leo.” He thumped his chest.
“I mean it. He wouldn’t dare set foot on tribal land, even with all his ‘connections.’” She made quote marks in the air with her fingers. “I’m starved. What’s to eat?”
Tank thumped his chest. “You squaw. Me brave. Me defend squaw against mean white man.” He made a grab for her. “You cook. Me eat.”
She slipped out of his grasp. “Me squaw. Brave cooks.” She slapped him gently. “New order around here.”
CHAPTER 22
Bruno Eberhardt went back to his library and stared at the blasted safe. He set a chair in front of it, turned the chair around, and straddled it, resting his arms on the back.
When he’d first seen the safe, his reaction had been to do nothing. No police report, no retaliation. But the more he thought of the bitch getting away with fifty thousand, the more his blood boiled. Action was needed.
Action. He had to take his mind off his daughter.
Obviously, Isabella would go back to Aquinnah, to tribal housing where she had lived before she moved in with him. She’d never lived anyplace else. She didn’t know any other life. She’d figure she was safe there, guarded by the tribe and those two big brothers of hers, great brutes who ran that trucking business.
He stood up and moved the chair back against the wall. He’d call the security firm off-Island first thing in the morning to replace the safe.
Then he would get even. More than get even. He made a fist and pounded his left palm.
The money. Yes. Get it back, by all means, with interest.
Jewelry. Yes. He’d given her some mighty expensive stuff. Get that back.
Clothes. She’d bought clothes. Probably fifty thousand dollars’ worth. What could he do with women’s clothes? Not take them back. Yes, he would take them back. What in hell could he do with them? He’d think of something.
But first, access to tribal housing. An outsider would never get in. It would have to be an inside job. He thought about that.
Ahh!
The chief of tribal police, Josephus VanDyke, owed him big time. He’d taken care of a serious gambling debt the chief had incurred, and not only that: the characters involved would never bother the chief again.
He’d explain to Chief VanDyke that his property had been stolen by a tribal member and he wanted his stolen property back. Quietly. He’d say he didn’t want Isabella to get in trouble over the theft. He simply wanted to get back the money, the jewelry, and, if it wasn’t too much trouble, the clothing. No fuss, no bother. No Island or state cops interfering with the sovereign nation’s business.
There’d be a recovery fee payable, of course. Wink, wink.
Eberhardt left the library and walked from room to room of his vacant house, feeling marginally better. From the library, through a hall lined with landscape paintings, to the great room that overlooked the sound. His head ached. His eyes felt scratchy. His stomach hurt. He didn’t miss Isabella, but he missed the hysterical background noise of that TV channel she watched.
Most of all, he mis
sed those daily calls from Sammy. For all those years, he’d considered her calls a nuisance, had cut her off most of the time. Right now he’d trade anything to have the phone vibrate and hear her voice again.
Yes, he’d work with Mrs. Trumbull. He’d graciously accept her apology when he proved to her, without a doubt, that Zack Zeller killed his daughter.
* * *
That afternoon Victoria was clearing away her notes for her column when her first visitor arrived.
She greeted the young woman with short blond hair.
“I’m Connie Burrowes,” she said. “Thanks for asking me. We really need to talk to you.”
“Anderson Jones is coming, too. He should be here shortly.”
“I know he’ll have a lot to say.”
“Elizabeth, my granddaughter, set out snacks in the parlor. We can talk in there.” Victoria led the way.
Victoria sat in her usual seat in the wing chair and Connie sat on the uncomfortable sofa. Once they were seated Connie said, “Elizabeth spoke to my class last spring about people working in nontraditional jobs. Both women and men. She’s very inspiring.”
“Vineyard women have always been strong,” Victoria said. “Their menfolk would go to sea for years at a time, so the women worked in every job there was. They ran farms and mills and grocery stores, and thought nothing of it.”
A knock on the door. “Hallo!”
“Come in. We’re in here, Mr. Jones,” Victoria called out.
Anderson Jones was a large man, so tall his head barely cleared the top of the doorframe and the rest of his body seemed to fill it. His skin was dark, his hair was short and gray, and when he walked into the parlor and Victoria could see his eyes were a clear, light hazel.
He bowed slightly to Victoria. “Mrs. Trumbull.” Then nodded at Connie. “Nice to see you.” Back to Victoria. “Ms. Burrowes and I have a lot to say.”
Victoria indicated the big armchair. “Please have a seat, Mr. Jones. There’s wine, if either of you would like a glass.”
“Call me Anderson.” He poured wine before sitting and passed a glass to Victoria, one to Connie, and took one himself. He set his wineglass on the small table next to his chair and sat, large hands on his knees. “Where would you like to start, Mrs. Trumbull?”
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