Trumpet of Death

by Cynthia Riggs

  “I’ve heard about Samantha Eberhardt’s treatment of Sebastian Sibert, Lincoln’s son, and about her girls’ club.”

  “She didn’t actually call it a club, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Connie. “She called it a fellowship, a nice, warm, friendly sounding name.”

  “Warm and friendly, that was our Samantha,” said Anderson.

  Victoria turned to him. “Tell me about your son.”

  “Benjy, yes. He was just a kid when he met her. Thirteen, bright, straight-A student, freshman at the high school.” He leaned forward. “He’s sixteen now. Dropped out of school. I finally got him in a drug treatment center. Off-Island.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Victoria could think of nothing else to say.

  “Let me tell you about Samantha, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Connie. “First of all, we live on the Island because it’s a safe place to raise our children. We didn’t reckon on drugs. Samantha was clean-cut looking, sort of outdoorsy. She was charming. She spoke well, had good manners—when she wanted to.” Connie shifted on the hard sofa. “We parents thought, what a nice influence on our children. We hadn’t the least notion of what was coming. The kids loved her. She talked about all the adventures she’d had and got them—and us parents—under her spell.” She leaned back.

  Victoria looked from her to Anderson.

  “Drugs, Mrs. Trumbull. Drugs.”

  “How did she obtain them?” asked Victoria.

  “There are a number of dealers on this Island,” said Anderson. “Unfortunately. And when you’re dealing in drugs, morals and ethics go out the window.” He held up his right hand and rubbed his thumb and third finger together. “Money, money, money. All about money. The kids ran errands for her, buying and selling stuff. They didn’t have a clue.”

  Connie picked up. “When we were kids we hid behind the barn and smoked corn silk wrapped in toilet paper. We thought we were wicked.”

  Victoria nodded. The three wineglasses were untouched.

  Connie continued, “She had the kids smoking, but not corn silk. One thing led to another. Harder and harder drugs. The kids got hooked.”

  “Who paid for the drugs?” asked Victoria.

  “To start with, she got the kids to ‘invest’ their allowances or savings or whatever, promising she’d make a lot of money for them. Then she bought drugs from her dealer friends and her kids sold small quantities around the school. She’d give her investors enough to keep them happy and she’d take a big profit.”

  “Is this what happened to your daughter?” Victoria asked Connie.

  “My Brooke attempted suicide.”

  Victoria was silent.

  “She’s in counseling that I can’t afford to pay for. But I can’t afford not to pay for it.”

  “Will she be all right?” Victoria asked.

  Connie shrugged. “She’ll never be the same. A sweet, gentle girl with a lot of wonderful dreams. Now it’s nightmares.”

  “Benjy.” Anderson said his son’s name and no more.

  Victoria picked up her wineglass and took a sip. “Do you both live near the high school?”

  Connie looked at Anderson, who shook his head.

  “Neither of us does,” said Connie. “I live just this side of the Edgartown Triangle. A quiet, woodsy area, but within walking distance of the town.”

  “I know the area,” said Victoria.

  “It’s a nice place for kids,” said Connie. “My late husband built a treehouse for Brooke. She’d play up in the branches for hours when she was little.”

  “I loved scuffing through fallen leaves when I was a child,” said Victoria.

  “Brooke did, too. I used to let the leaves lie all over the grass so she could run through them. Now I rake them into a pile behind the house so they don’t smother the grass.”

  “I didn’t realize your husband had died,” said Victoria. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. It’s tough without him. Maybe if he’d been around Samantha wouldn’t have snared Brooke.”

  “Stop!” Anderson held up his hand. “Don’t think that way, Connie. Drive you crazy if you do.”

  “And you, Anderson? Where do you live?”

  “I’m one of the few year-round Camp Ground residents.”

  “Do you live in one of the lovely old gingerbread houses?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It must be lonely in winter.”

  “Well, there are about two dozen of us year-rounders out of about three-hundred-fifty cottages. We’re a close community off-season. Potluck suppers and bridge. When summer comes, it’s too busy.”

  “No tree house for Benjy?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I built a tree house for Benjy in a big old maple behind my cottage, but he never took to it. Didn’t like heights.” He lifted a hand from the chair’s arm and dropped it again. “I’ve got a small garden, really small, and I pile up the leaves for compost. Can’t have a real compost heap with kitchen scraps because of rodents.”

  Victoria smiled. “I know all about rodents and compost heaps. Fortunately, my compost is far enough away from the house that I don’t mind having the rats turn it for me.”

  “We’ve gone from Samantha to rats,” said Connie. “That’s appropriate.”

  “Don’t bad-mouth rats,” said Anderson. “They’re pretty nice animals, actually.”

  Silence.

  Anderson broke the silence. “A dozen parents, and probably every one of us feels relieved that Samantha is gone.”

  Connie nodded.

  Anderson said, “I’m afraid you’re not going to find much cooperation from us parents in hunting down the killer. More likely you’ll find us protecting the killer, whoever it is.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Abilene Butler lived on Tisbury Great Pond in what Islanders called a camp. It was really no more than an unheated shack with no running water, no electricity, and an outdoor privy. Her great-grandfather had built it as a hunting lodge more than a hundred years before she was born, on land her family had owned for a hundred years before that.

  In spring, summer, and fall, she hiked along the shore to a brook at the head of the pond where she bathed. In winter she carried buckets of water from the pump behind the camp and heated it on a small kerosene stove for her bath. A couple of years earlier, Lincoln Sibert’s son, Sebastian, who was only thirteen or fourteen at the time, helped her build a stone chimney and fireplace on the north side of the shack. The fireplace gave out enough heat in winter to keep her quite cozy.

  Until recently, Abilene hadn’t worried about supporting herself. Her grandmother, Victoria Trumbull’s girlhood friend, had left her a small legacy that, along with writing and teaching yoga, was enough.

  The recent development looming before her was her neighbors. On either side, wealthy newcomers had bought pond-view property and built large summer houses. Property values soared and now Abilene’s small holdings were taxed beyond anything she could hope to pay.

  Her new neighbors were not sympathetic. To them, the ancient, ramshackle camp was an excrescence that marred their summertime view of the water. Its eccentric inhabitant was not someone they cared to have crossing in front of their houses, nor someone they wanted their children to associate with, let alone associate with her themselves. They wanted her out.

  Abilene felt like an autumn leaf blown before the storm of lawyers who suggested, then recommended, urged, and insisted that she sell her acre of pond view and were now threatening to sue. She would never be able to fight a lawsuit.

  Abilene was alone and desperate when she met Samantha.

  Samantha had shown up at Lily Pond Yoga, Abilene’s yoga studio, for a regular Friday night Free-for-All. Every level of competence came for the no-cost evening of yoga. Abilene had not known who the young woman with long dark hair was at first. She was obviously new to yoga and Abilene paid special attention to her.

  Samantha soon let Abilene know whose daughter she was, the connections Daddy had, and the money she, Samantha, h
ad access to.

  Abilene decided to court her.

  She’d heard of Samantha’s background, motherless with a father who equated money with love. Abilene knew enough about psychology to recognize a troubled young woman seeking acceptance, and she coolly took on the risk of friendship with this unstable, rich land mine.

  But then she fell in love. And became dependent upon Samantha. The love alternated with hatred.

  Sammy had been Abilene’s one and only lover. When they first got together, Sammy had promised to make Abilene’s small holdings safe forever from the predatory neighbors. For a while, Sammy had lived up to her promises. She had paid Abilene’s taxes. She had started legal action against the neighbors and paid the legal fees until recently, when things changed.

  Suddenly, Sammy had no more money, or so she claimed.

  Sammy had gone wild with her promises of help. More lawyers, more legal fees. The debts that Sammy had incurred were mounting, and Sammy was no longer paying them. Abilene was stuck with them.

  Abilene knew that Sammy was hooked on drugs. Lately she had burned up every cent she could get her hands on buying drugs. Eating them up, smoking them up, shooting them up.

  Sammy’s death was both desolation and relief.

  Abilene knew beyond any doubt that it had never occurred to Sammy that she might die someday. And she was equally sure Sammy had left no will. Even if she had, there’d be no mention of Abilene in it.

  Abilene was left with bills she’d never dreamed of before Sammy came into her life. Bills she would never be able to pay, and the imminent loss of her camp on the Great Pond.

  * * *

  The morning after Victoria spoke with Connie Burrowes and Anderson Jones, she walked to the police station to report to Casey.

  It was a crisp, cool, day. The air smelled of late harvests and the first of the falling leaves, and was what Victoria called “a typical Vineyard day,” although this kind of day was rare. The Island’s fall colors were subtle, not like the brilliant reds and oranges of the Vermont mountains. But the beetlebung trees beside the brook displayed their wine-red leaves, the Norway maples had turned a muted gold, and the oaks’ tan and red-brown leaves would hold far into the winter. In some areas a streak of vivid red or orange punctuated the scene, where poison ivy twined up a tree trunk or fence post.

  Doane’s hayfield had been mown for the last time this year, and Victoria inhaled the sweet scent as she walked past, briskly swinging her lilac wood stick.

  When she reached the grounds of the police station, she shook out the stale bread she’d brought with her, and the noisy flock of waterfowl assembled.

  “All gone.” She stowed the empty bag next to her police deputy hat, which she always carried with her.

  Casey greeted her at the top of the steps. “Morning, Victoria. Come on in.”

  Victoria seated herself in the armchair she considered her own. Casey went behind her desk and sat.

  “What’s up, Victoria?”

  “I’m here to report on my investigations into Samantha Eberhardt’s death.”

  Casey shoved papers to one side and set her elbows on the desk. “It’s not our jurisdiction, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Victoria.

  “The state police are handling the case and they have the suspect in custody.” She lifted up the beach stone paperweight from the top of the papers and tossed it from hand to hand.

  “Zack didn’t kill that girl,” said Victoria.

  “Let it go,” warned Casey.

  “The police have in custody a slow-witted boy who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.” Victoria leaned forward. “And furthermore, the police want to appease the girl’s suffering father by nabbing someone, anyone, as quickly as possible.”

  “Not our problem, Victoria,” Casey warned.

  Victoria rose. “I’ll be working with Bruno Eberhardt.”

  “What?” Casey, too, stood.

  “Mr. Eberhardt is going to help me find the killer.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’ll report back,” said Victoria, and turned to leave.

  “Okay, okay,” said Casey. “Keep me informed. I’ll give you a ride home, and you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to.”

  * * *

  Isabella finished unpacking her suitcases at Tank’s condo, and the two set about counting the money released from Bruno Eberhardt’s safe.

  Tank stared at the stacks of hundred-dollar bills laid out on the bed. “You did okay, Izzy. Fifty thousand.”

  “I worked my ass off for that money.”

  “Pretty soft job.” Tank kicked off his untied boots and stretched out on the bed beside the piles of bills.

  “Soft? Bruno Eberhardt?” She turned her head and spat.

  “Hey, watch it! I just cleaned this place.” He put his hands behind his head.

  She paced the small room, back and forth. “He’s a control freak. An egomaniac.” She kicked at one of her empty suitcases. “Narcissist. Bastard. Steals his daughter away from her mother,” she stopped pacing. “Money, lawyers, more money. Until the ex is broke. Then he fucks his daughter up good just to get back at mama. ‘Anything you want, sweetums.’ His daughter was as sick as he is. Jealous bitch. He’s neurotic, psychotic, and rigid as a stovepipe except where it counts, if you get my meaning.”

  “Now, now.” Tank chortled. “Spitcat. What I’m calling you from now on. You know he’s coming after you for this money, don’t you?” He waved at the green stuff on the bed.

  “He wouldn’t dare.”

  “Doesn’t sound to me like he’s the kind of guy to forget his fifty thousand bucks.”

  She started to say something.

  He held up a hand. “I know, you’re about to say fifty thousand is peanuts to him. The way you talk about him, it’s the principle of you getting away with something. Something of his.”

  “My brothers won’t let him get near me.”

  “He’s got money, and money talks.”

  “He wouldn’t dare touch me.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  She’d started pacing again, kicking everything that was within kicking distance. “And that bitch, Samantha…!”

  “You calling that pretty little white girl nasty names?”

  She pursed her mouth as though to spit again.

  He pointed a finger at her. “Don’t you do that, or you’ll mop the floor with the seat of your panties.”

  “You’d better not mention that bitch to me.”

  “You heard she’s dead, didn’t you? You have anything to do with that?”

  She turned away.

  “What’d she do to you?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  He held out his arms to her. “C’mere, Spitcat. Let’s roll around on all this green stuff and the world will seem a better place.”

  * * *

  While Tank and Isabella were counting their money, Victoria got a phone call from Casey.

  “I have a favor to ask you.” Casey sounded hesitant.

  “Of course. Whatever I can do for you.” Victoria held the phone to her ear, moved her chair closer to the window, and sat.

  “Well, it’s like this,” Casey began, and paused.

  Victoria watched a chickadee dart to the feeder, snatch a seed, and dart off again.

  “You know Lincoln Sibert’s situation,” said Casey.

  “It’s sad. He’s not over his wife’s death yet, and now this.”

  “Well,” Casey said again, “I was thinking of inviting him to my place for supper. But…”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Wait, Victoria. I’m the town’s police chief. I can’t do that.”

  “This isn’t New York or Boston,” said Victoria. “Invite him.”

  “No, no. The reason I called is, I was wondering if you would mind extending an invitation to him.”

  “Oh. Of course. I wish I’d thought of it myself.” Victoria smiled. “Would it b
e all right if I included you and Patrick?”

  She heard a sigh of relief.

  “That would be great. Patrick’s old enough to behave.”

  “He’s nine now, isn’t he?” asked Victoria.

  “Almost ten.”

  They set a date and Casey gave Victoria Lincoln’s unlisted number.

  “Thanks so much, Victoria.”

  “You’re the one I should thank,” said Victoria.

  After she disconnected, she called Lincoln Sibert’s number. It rang six times before a sleepy voice answered.”

  “Lincoln? It’s Victoria Trumbull.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “I was dozing in my chair. Should have been up and about.”

  “If you’re not otherwise engaged, Elizabeth and I would like to invite you to supper on Saturday night.”

  “Well…”

  “Baked beans,” said Victoria. “Cooked in a proper bean pot all day Saturday.”

  “Ummm…” said Lincoln.

  “With salt pork and molasses.”

  “Well,” said Lincoln. “I can almost smell it, Mrs. Trumbull. What time’s supper?”

  “Seven,” said Victoria, and hung up, satisfied. She then called Casey.

  “What can I bring?” asked Casey.

  “Dessert,” said Victoria, and that took care of Saturday night’s supper plans.

  * * *

  Bruno Eberhardt went into his study, the one room never tainted by Isabella or anyone else. He put his feet up on his desk and made a call to Josephus VanDyke, the tribal police chief. He felt his blood pressure rising along with his impatience after tapping in too many of those damned numbers in the automated system.

  “If you’d like to reach the Shellfish Constable, tap One. If you’d like to reach the Fence Viewer, tap Two. For the Tree Warden, tap Three. For the Trench Inspector, tap Four. For the…” Just as he was about to toss the phone across the room, Chief VanDyke himself answered.

  “Always good to hear from you, Mr. Eberhardt. What can I do for you?”

  “How does anyone reach you in an emergency?” demanded Eberhardt.

  “I beg your pardon?”