Trumpet of Death

by Cynthia Riggs

Eberhardt leaned back in his swivel chair and took a deep breath. “Your goddamned high-tech phone system. What do you have, a staff of thirty that someone who wants to reach you has to go through?”

  The chief said nothing.

  “Well, Josephus, I’m about to do you another small favor,” said Eberhardt, emphasizing the word you.

  “I already owe you for the many favors you have done for me, Mr. Eberhardt,” the chief said quietly. “And you say you are about to put me in further debt?”

  “I’ll collect one of these days, Josephus.” Eberhardt took another deep breath. Mustn’t let inanimate stuff like phones get to him like this. “But here’s the situation now. You knew, of course, that Isabella Minnowfish was living with me for the last two years.”

  “A lovely young woman,” said the chief.

  “I was fortunate to have had her companionship for that time.” Eberhardt paused, and the chief said nothing. “But all good things come to an end.”

  “True,” said the chief.

  “Isabella has decided to return to her roots. Back to the tribe.”

  “Ah,” said the chief.

  “I assume you heard as much.” Eberhardt swiveled his chair slightly, his feet still up on the desk.

  “I hear many things,” said the chief.

  “When she left, she and a friend borrowed some items of mine that I would like to have returned with the least amount of bother to everyone concerned.”

  Silence from the chief.

  “She or the friend accessed my safe. Violently, I’m afraid, in order to borrow the items.”

  The chief paused before he said, “And the items are?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. And jewelry worth somewhat more than that.” Eberhardt leaned his chair back. The springs squealed.

  “Ah,” said the chief. “I’m sure you have evidence of your ownership of these borrowed items.”

  “I do. I have a list of the five hundred numbers on the hundred-dollar bills they borrowed. I also have receipts for my purchase of the jewelry that was borrowed. I also have photographs of the jewelry.”

  “You are a thorough man,” said the chief. “And you are calling me because you would like me to get your items back as a favor to you?”

  “Not at all,” said Eberhardt, with a touch of indignation. “Certainly not as a favor to me. As a service to the tribe.”

  “A service to the tribe, Mr. Eberhardt?”

  “You’ll agree, I believe, that it is in the best interest of the tribe as well as Ms. Minnowfish to have these borrowed items returned quietly rather than to involve the non-tribal authorities.”

  Silence.

  “There is a finder’s fee for the return of the items,” said Eberhardt.

  “How soon do you need these borrowed items back?”

  “Immediately.” Eberhardt paused again. “There are a number of other borrowed items I would like to have returned as well.” He leaned forward, opened a desk drawer, and drew out a notebook. He riffled through pages.

  “And those are, Mr. Eberhardt?”

  “Women’s clothing I loaned to Ms. Minnowfish. You will want a copy of the list of clothing, receipts, and photographs as well.”

  “What sort of clothing, Mr. Eberhardt?”

  Eberhardt paged through the notebook. “Shoes, cocktail dresses, suits, sportswear, coats, jackets, furs, ski attire, riding boots, riding habits—”

  “Yes, yes,” said the chief.

  “Not intimate apparel. Lingerie she may keep. Silk underwear, nightgowns, and robes, that sort of thing. A gift from me.”

  “You have always been generous, Mr. Eberhardt.”

  “I hope to continue to be generous, Josephus.”

  “And you believe this recovery of items will be a service to the tribe, avoiding the unpleasantness of Island and state police claiming the items were stolen. And certainly an even greater service to Isabella and her friend, not having to face accusations of theft. Although you know, of course, Mr. Eberhardt, that she is a member of a sovereign nation, not subject to your laws.”

  “I realize that, Josephus. Nevertheless, the publicity and the legal complications would not help the tribe or Isabella.”

  “I see. I need to think about this.”

  “By all means. Think about it. However, my offer of a finder’s fee will be withdrawn tomorrow. The day after that, I will—”

  “I understand, Mr. Eberhardt. May I be so crass as to ask what the finder’s fee might be? We are talking about well over one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of items.”

  “Not crass at all, Josephus. You’re a prudent man. When you’ve had time to think about it, I’ll give you a written agreement for 7.5 percent of the total value of my recovered property worth, at a rough estimate, 150,000 dollars which, I believe, would bring the finder’s fee up to something like 11,250 dollars. Cash,” he added.

  “I will call you back in an hour, Mr. Eberhardt.”

  Eberhardt disconnected with a feeling of satisfaction, the first positive feeling he’d had since he’d identified his dead daughter.

  CHAPTER 24

  Zack, meanwhile, was adjusting to life in jail. He expected to be released as soon as they realized they had the wrong person, that he had nothing to do with Sammy’s death. Mrs. Trumbull would get him out.

  He was out of his cell in the jail’s rec room, working on a jigsaw puzzle, while waiting for supper to be served. The smell of frying onions made his mouth water. About six other guys were sitting around, talking, and watching TV. One guy he’d gotten to know, named Jeff, was sitting at a table, writing.

  He was still confined for most of the day in that same cell with hot pink walls. He had trouble sleeping because the walls seemed to close in on him and shimmer in the dim light that was on all night. The sheriff had promised to move him to a more austere cell when one became available. But he didn’t expect to be here more than another day. Two at the most.

  Fortunately, the sheriff had relaxed the rules about phone calls, so he was able to make a call a day to whoever he wanted. But the only person he wanted to talk to was Mrs. Trumbull.

  The puzzle was about half done when he started work on it. It was a partly completed picture of a mill with a big wheel and a stream, most of which was blank. Hard to find pieces for the stream.

  Jeff looked up from his writing. “How’re you doing, pal?”

  “Not bad, considering,” said Zack. “I have trouble sleeping in that pink cell.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. They put me in there, too, the first night. Guess it’s to soften you up.”

  “You never told me what you’re in for,” said Zack, looking down at the puzzle. “Hey, found it.”

  “Found what?” asked Jeff.

  “Part of the mill stream.”

  “That’s a miracle,” said Jeff. “Most of the time the pieces you need are missing. A real bitch.”

  “So what are you in for?”

  “DUI,” said Jeff. “I been here before and should’ve known better. Had one too many and that friendly state cop, Tim, nabbed me again.” He pushed his writing pad back and capped his pen.

  “What are you writing, a letter?” asked Zack.

  “A book. A memoir. My life story.”

  “Wish I could write,” said Zack. “Who’s Tim?”

  “State trooper. Has it in for me. Knows where I hang out and parks outta sight. I shoulda known,” he said again.

  “What are the rest of the guys in here for?” asked Zack.

  “DUIs or drugs. Or domestic abuse. You’re a celebrity, you know. We never had a murderer before.”

  In truth, Zack was being treated by his fellow inmates with a respect he’d never known.

  “I just meant to make her sick, didn’t mean to kill her, in fact, I didn’t,” said Zack.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Jeff. “But she ended up dead, right? Lucky you.”

  “Really weird,” said Zack.

  “Yeah,” said Je
ff. “I guess.”

  “I was afraid I’d killed some of the eight. Maybe all of them.”

  “Yeah?” Jeff’s face went rigid. “Eight people?”

  “When the police found me, I was trying to get off the Island, but I missed the ferry.”

  “You thought you killed eight people?”

  “But luckily I didn’t.”

  “Yeah. Lucky you.” Jeff pushed back his chair and got up. “Call of nature. Be seein’ you around.”

  Zack found another stream piece and snapped it into place. Jeff was right. He was lucky. He hadn’t killed Sammy and he hadn’t killed her father’s guests. Looking back, he’d been pretty stupid to think he could terminate Sammy’s pregnancy with mushrooms. Someone must have hated her an awful lot to kill her.

  He looked around for a piece at the edge of the stream that had a head and two angel wings. Looked over all the pieces. Didn’t find that one, but did find two pieces of the stream that fit together. Where did the block of two fit? No place he could see, yet. Must be in the center of the stream.

  What were they going to do to him? Would he be sentenced to some prison term just because he’d thought about making her sick? Well, the lawyer, Miranda, was supposed to defend him, and Mrs. Trumbull would find a way to get him out of here.

  Two guys sauntered over to him. “How’re you doin’?” the shorter of the two asked. “I’m Rocky and this here’s Butch.” He pointed a thumb at the tall, broad guy behind him. “Understand you’re here on a murder rap.”

  Zack had decided he had bragging rights. “Yeah,” he said. “What about you?”

  “Drugs for me, domestic for him.” He jerked his head at Butch.

  “Stupid bitch,” said Butch. “You hit your G.F.?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend anymore,” said Zack. “She’s dead.”

  “That would do it,” said Butch. “You got balls, all right.”

  A gong sounded.

  “Lunch,” said Rocky.

  Now, in addition to smelling onions Zack could hear the sizzle of frying hamburger.

  “Can’t complain about the food,” said Zack, reveling in the idea that he was respected by the likes of Butch and Rocky.

  “Chef’s in here for dealing,” said Rocky. He cooks stuff we grow out back, like beans and squash.”

  “I never much cared for vegetables before,” said Zack. “These taste pretty good.”

  “He’s teaching cooking,” said Rocky. “Couple guys been in here for more than a year and are pretty good cooks now. Probably get good work when they got out.”

  The gong sounded again.

  The guys lined up to go into what they called the dining hall.

  This really wasn’t too bad for a couple of days, thought Zack.

  * * *

  Isabella, wearing only her thong, was on her hands and knees looking for hundred-dollar bills under the bed. Tank, in jeans only, was counting them and putting them back in some kind of order. The bills had scattered over and into the bed during their celebration of the heist and had spilled onto the floor.

  “Here’s another one.” She held up a bill and tittered. “A couple more I can’t quite reach yet.” She wriggled under the bed. “Three more.” Her voice was muffled by bedclothes and dust. “Four. Five. How are we doing?”

  “Fifteen hundred to go.”

  She squirmed back from under the bed and sneezed. “Don’t you ever clean this place?”

  “Waiting for you.” He was putting rubber bands around stacks of bills.

  “To clean your dump?”

  “No, babe. Mess it up like this here.”

  She stood, brushed off the cobwebs, and held out her arms. “Well, let’s see what you mean by that.”

  At which point, there was a knock on the door.

  “Shit,” said Tank.

  “Don’t answer,” said Isabella.

  There was a harder knock and a loud voice calling out something that sounded like “Police!”

  Isabella put her hands up to her mouth. “No!”

  “It’s okay, babe, they can’t touch us. Help me throw the blanket over this stuff.”

  “Tribal police. We’re coming in.”

  “Josephus VanDyke, that’s who it is,” said Tank, relieved. “He’s one of us. Hurry up, though. Straighten the blanket so it doesn’t look like we’re hiding something.”

  The door that led directly from the outside into the living area opened, and from the bedroom they could see Chief VanDyke stride in. He was in full uniform.

  Tank patted down his hair and left the bedroom. “Good evening, Chief. What’s up?”

  Chief VanDyke was in his early fifties, just under six feet tall with a broad, weather-beaten face, a wide, thick chest, and a large belly that overhung his uniform belt. A private guy, even his fellow tribe members didn’t know much about his personal life. Married, no kids. That was about it. He stood, booted feet apart, thumbs hooked into his belt.

  “Hope I didn’t disturb you.” He removed his police hat and ran a hand over light brown hair, cut short. He glanced around with those hazel eyes of his.

  “Me and Isabella was just celebrating her return,” said Tank, running his own hand over his own hair, the same color as the chief’s, but worn in a sort of Afro. He was barefoot and shirtless. “You here for anything special? Business or social call?”

  “Both,” said Josephus. “Got three of my men outside. Mind if they come in?”

  “If it’s social, can I offer you a beer? Got a six pack on ice.”

  “Thanks, but no. It’s a little more business than social.” Josephus turned to the half-open door and called out, “Corbit, tell Monto and Sonny to come on in. All three of you.” He turned back to Tank. “Ms. Minnowfish available?”

  “I’ll ask.” Tank stepped into the bedroom, which opened directly into the living area. Isabella was tugging a sweater over her head. “Izzy, they want to talk to you.”

  She heaved a deep sigh. “I’m in no mood to talk to them.”

  “You better come on out, anyway. Don’t say a word, if you don’t want to.”

  She sucked in her breath to fasten the top button of her jeans and ran her fingers through her hair. “I must look a mess.”

  “Never,” Tank said, gallantly.

  The chief and his three men, all in uniform, were standing just inside the door, when Tank and Isabella came out of the bedroom.

  The chief was studying the narrow, barely furnished room. It was dominated by a worn couch that might have been green at one time. A large television set faced the couch. At the end of the room near a small kitchen two folding chairs were pulled up to a card table that still had the remains of a nuked frozen dinner in a black plastic serving container, two used paper plates, plastic forks and spoons, crumpled paper napkins.

  “Like your decorator,” said the chief.

  “Yeah,” said Tank. Isabella stood behind him, arms crossed over her chest.

  No rugs, no pictures, no curtains on the two small windows at either end of the room, or on the large picture window next to the door. The picture window looked out at other houses identical to Tank’s.

  “Needs a woman’s touch,” said the chief. “Looks like you might have hope yet.” He nodded toward Isabella.

  Tank hooked his own fingers in the waist of his jeans. “What do you want, Josephus?”

  “Well,” Josephus drawled out, “we’re dealing with a tribal matter that I’d like to settle before it gets blown out of proportion.”

  “C’mon, Josephus. Get to it.”

  “It’s a small matter of some borrowed items that need to be returned to their owner before, as I said, things get blown out of proportion.”

  “Borrowed items,” Tank repeated.

  The chief nodded. “Fifty thousand dollars in cash. Five hundred bills with the image of one of America’s founding fathers, Benjamin Franklin. I like that. America’s founding father.”

  Tank continued to stand, his thumbs still hooked
in his jeans.

  “And there’s a small matter of borrowed jewelry the owner would like to have returned. With no fuss, you understand.”

  Isabella snapped, “It’s my jewelry. He gave it to me.”

  “Shut up, Izzy.” Tank didn’t move.

  “We’ve come to collect the money, the jewelry and,” the chief took out a printed list from an inside pocket of his blouse, “I almost forgot. The furs, shoes, dresses, and—”

  “Stop!” screamed Isabella. “That bastard, that lousy, fucking bastard! Those are my clothes. My things. My jewelry. My money! I earned it, all of it. It’s mine.”

  “Izzy! Shut. Up.”

  Josephus handed the list to Tank. “You can have this copy.”

  Tank didn’t move to take it.

  Josephus turned to his three men. “Okay, collect the stuff.”

  “A warrant! You have to have a warrant to touch my things!” shouted Isabella.

  Josephus turned back to her. “You forget,” he said quietly. “We are a sovereign nation. We do not go by rules that govern others.”

  “Then why can’t she keep her property? He can’t come after her here,” said Tank. “He gave it to her. The money. She earned that money.”

  Josephus smiled. His face was leathery from being out on the water, fishing. The deep lines that radiated across his face and ran from his nose to his chin crinkled in amusement. “You can take that up with him.” He turned to the three men who’d stood silently since they’d entered. “Corbit, go through the house, you, Monto, and Sonny. Pack up everything on the list. Make sure you don’t take anything else. Suitcases are on the list. Use them. Cardboard boxes in the cruiser for the overflow.”

  “No, no, no!” screamed Isabella. She broke away from Tank, darted at Josephus, and slashed out at him with her polished red talons.

  Tank grabbed the back of her sweater and dragged her back.

  The three uniformed tribal cops followed the chief as he headed toward the bedroom.

  He paused. “You can help us if you want, Tank. Watch us if you want. Get out of our way if you want. Don’t go far, because we are here to pick up every single bill and every single diamond earring and every single glove that’s on this list.” He held it up and shook it.

  Isabella flung herself at Tank. “They can’t do this!”