“Who do you suppose whacked Eberhardt? It is Eberhardt, isn’t it?”
Leo said nothing.
They drove in silence for several minutes. The stone walls on either side were unreal, two-dimensional, something you’d see on TV. Hundreds of years earlier farmers had fenced in their sheep with sturdy walls of stones they’d cleared from their fields. The scent of the sea wafted in through their open windows.
“Getting close to home,” said Bucky. “Wonder what Izzy will have to say about us not getting her stuff.” He glanced over at his older brother.
“Her problem, not ours. We did what we could.”
“Should we tell her we took care of her problem?”
“Keep your mouth shut, Bucky. Don’t tell her a thing about the body. Leave it, will you? Be glad we only have to deal with the fallout when she hears we didn’t get her stuff.”
“You’d have killed him, wouldn’t you?”
“If I had to. Sure,” said Leo. “I didn’t have to. You didn’t have to. Be thankful, will you? And just shut up.”
CHAPTER 30
Isabella waited for her brothers to return from staking out Bruno Eberhardt’s place.
When they’d moved her out of Bruno’s house and into Tank’s, they had packed up everything she owned plus a few things she thought she should own, which included her entire wardrobe, the most beautiful, expensive clothes. She might never have an occasion to wear the silks and velvets and linens, but it was the idea of seeing pretty things hanging in the closet with a perfumed sachet keeping them fresh.
Now that Chief VanDyke and his cronies had raided Tank’s place and stole everything she owned, the only clothing she possessed was what she’d worn when she left Eberhardt’s place. All her pretty things were gone.
Her brothers would get it all back.
Tank had gone to Oak Bluffs with his buddies. She didn’t care how late it was when he came home.
It was boring waiting for her brothers. She busied herself around the place, straightening up messes of Tank’s that were driving her crazy. Tank told her to leave them alone and she’d sworn she wouldn’t touch them. After that, she turned on the TV and channel surfed, but reception was lousy and there was nothing worth watching anyway.
She made herself tuna fish salad for supper, put it on a paper plate, and set it up nicely on a tray with some chips, a glass of orange juice, and a paper napkin. She took her supper and a folding chair to the big front window where she could watch for her brothers. The window faced the road that ran through tribal housing. She’d recognize the sound of the van’s engine and would see the lights before it reached the house.
She’d hinted to them that they might take care of Bruno. Perhaps they had. It couldn’t be that difficult to kill someone. Hints didn’t always work their way through her brothers’ thick heads, though.
It was fully dark now. What was taking them so long?
She finished her tuna, took the tray into the kitchen area, and dropped the paper plate into the trash. Then she washed and dried her hands. While she was doing that, she heard the distinctive rumble of their van approaching. She went to the door, but the van, instead of stopping, passed by, heading toward the garage.
Stinkers, she thought. Now I’ll have to carry all my things back here, getting them all dusty.
No, I’ll make them drive back here with everything.
She slipped on her shoes and threw a sweatshirt of Tank’s over her shoulders.
She walked to the Brave Haulers’ garage, savoring what it would be like to get her stuff back. It will be worth twenty-five grand to have everything back again. She could live with only half the fifty thousand.
* * *
By the time Isabella reached her brothers’ garage, they had parked the van off to one side of the garage. Bucky was unloading paper bags of something from the back.
“Hi, guys,” said Isabella. “Where’s my stuff?”
“You tell her, Lee,” said Bucky.
“We didn’t get your stuff.” Leo took one of the heavy bags from Bucky and carried it to the office side of the garage.
“Are you going back tomorrow to get it?”
“No,” said Leo, returning to the van.
“You better tell her, Lee,” said Bucky.
“Keep your mouth shut,” said Leo.
“What’s with you? I want my clothes. Where are they?”
“We don’t know where your clothes are,” said Leo.
“What do you mean?” Isabella stamped her foot. “I waited all day. I want my things.”
Leo carried another bag to the office side and returned. He jabbed a finger at his sister. “We’ve had a day from hell and we don’t know where your stuff is, understand? It’s gone. Vamoosed.”
Isabella leaned against the side of the van. “What do you have in those bags?”
“Groceries. We wasted a whole day out of our lives to not get your stuff.”
“We looked upstairs in your room,” said Bucky. “We even looked in the closets and drawers and in the other upstairs rooms. Nothing there.”
Isabella opened the van door and sat on the passenger’s seat, facing out toward her brothers.
Bucky went on, “Then we came downstairs—”
“Watch it,” cautioned Leo.
Bucky turned to him. “I’m just telling her what we saw.”
“Well, watch it.”
“Downstairs—”
“I’ll tell her,” said Leo. “In the dining room was where the cops took everything they got from here, because there were empty boxes, hangers, paper, all over the place, so we came home.”
“My jewelry?”
“No sign of it.”
“Did you check the safe? Surely he’d have put the money in the safe. He probably got a new safe to keep the money in.”
Bucky said, “Yeah, we—”
“Shut up,” said Leo.
“But…?”
“I said, shut up.”
“What’s going on?” said Isabella. “They must have taken my clothes somewhere.”
“We don’t know, and you don’t want to know,” said Leo. “Now will you let us get some shut-eye? We’re beat. We tried. We didn’t succeed.”
“What am I going to do?” asked Isabella.
“That’s your problem, little sister,” said Leo.
* * *
The dirty dishes from luncheon were piling up in the sink at the Beetlebung Café along with all the luncheon pots and pans. Will Osborne’s hands were deep in soapy water in the sink, and he was scrubbing a lasagna pan. The sauce was baked on, of course. He removed his hands from the tepid water and shook off the greasy suds.
He turned to Phil Smith, owner and manager. “You know, Mr. Smith, now Zack’s gone, I need help. I can only handle one more day of this shit.” He nodded at the stack of soaking lasagna pans. “And that’s with you helping, which I don’t see you doing a lot of.” He faced the sink again and turned on the hot water faucet full blast. “I have to tell you, this is getting old. One more day and I’m outta here.”
“Right,” said Phil, who was sitting at the prep table. “I hear you. Looks like it’ll be a while before Zack is back on the dishes. He’s a good worker.” He studied the handful of reservations he was holding. “We need to hire a new waitress.”
“A replacement for Samantha?” Will smirked. “Been a while.”
“Don’t mention that name to me.” Phil went back to the reservation forms.
“What about a replacement for Zack?” asked Will.
“You know of anyone who needs a job washing dishes?”
“Nope, and I’m not willing to do it much longer.”
“I’ll put an ad in the Enquirer, ‘waitress, dishwasher needed.’”
“How much are you offering for the dishwashing job?”
“Eight dollars an hour.”
Will shook his head. “That’s what you’re paying me after working for six months. Raise me to nine-fifty before you o
ffer a newbie eight. What were you paying Zack?”
Phil hesitated for a moment before answering. “Eight-fifty.”
“Christ! And I been here longer than him. And he’s in jail.”
Phil continued to check the reservations.
Will stared at his boss. “You got nothing to say?” He wiped his hands on a dish towel and tossed the towel at the prep table. It slid onto the floor. He unwound his apron string, pulled the damp apron off, and tossed that onto the floor next to the dish towel.
“I quit.”
He turned away from the sink and headed toward the door. “So long, Phil, you cheapskate sleaze.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” said Phil. “You can’t just walk out.”
“Oh no? Who’s stopping me?”
Phil pointed to the pots and pans lined up beside the sink. “We need those for dinner and I’ve got to start cooking pretty soon.”
“Wash ’em your damn self,” said Will, taking a few steps closer to the door.
Phil stood. “Wait!”
Will stopped. “Wait for what?”
“Eight-fifty.”
Will laughed. “I did say nine-fifty, didn’t I? Well, it’s ten now. Minimum wage is ten, right? Ten,” he repeated. “I can’t wait to contact the whatever board that fines cheaters like you.” He moved several steps closer to the door.
“Stop, will you? I can’t afford to pay ten. You know what business is like.”
“Yeah, poor you, just barely scraping out a living. Tough supporting that BMW of yours.”
“I’ll pay you nine-fifty an hour.”
“Ten,” said Will, turning to face his boss. “I’m thinking ‘minimum wage.’ Ten.”
Phil plopped back onto his chair and tossed the reservation forms onto the prep table. “Okay. You got me. Ten.”
“I want it in writing.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Before I go back to those freaking lasagna pans.”
“Okay.”
Will waited. “Well?”
“I’ll write it out,” said Phil.
Will picked up one of the reservation forms and turned it over. “Write it on the back of this.” He handed the form to Phil. “And, if you want those pots washed for dinner, you’re gonna have to get your hands dirty, too.”
“Okay. Sure. Yeah,” said Phil. He scribbled a note, handed it to Will, then got to his feet. He picked the apron up off the floor. “I’ll get a clean one.”
“Make it two.”
* * *
For the next hour they worked silently, Will scrubbing the pots, Phil rinsing them, wiping them dry, and putting them away.
They were near the end when Phil said, “No hard feelings?”
“Who, me?” said Will. “Long as you stick by the agreement.” He looked over his shoulder. “Someone’s at the door.”
Phil slung his dish towel over his shoulder, peered at the indistinct image in the frosted glass of the door, and unlocked it. Without really looking at the tall, well-built woman who stood in the dim light, he said, “Sorry, miss, we’re not open for dinner yet.”
“I’m not planning to have dinner here, I’m applying for your waitress position.”
Phil looked up at her. Stared at her. “Isabella Minnowfish?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” said Isabella.
“Waitress job?”
“Yes,” said Isabella. “You do need a waitress, don’t you?”
“I didn’t recognize you.”
“Because I’m wearing jeans?”
“I mean, I didn’t think you patronized places like this.”
“I don’t,” said Isabella. “I’m looking for a job, and someone said you might need a waitress. Island grapevine at work, you know.”
“Well, yeah, we do.”
“Here I am.”
Phil cleared his throat. “Excuse me for asking, but do you have any experience?”
“Experience!” said Isabella, with a laugh. “How many names do you want me to give you?”
Phil flushed. “I mean restaurants.”
“I know what you meant. Do you supply uniforms?”
“We’re not exactly a uniform-wearing restaurant.”
“Jeans?”
“Jeans are fine.”
“What do you pay?”
Phil paused a long moment before he said, “Three-fifty an hour plus tips.”
“Three-fifty? You must be joking.”
“Tips should bring it up to ten. If not, I’ll make it up.”
“Okay,” she said. “When do you want me to start?”
Phil cleared his throat again. “Tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here.” With that she turned and started to walk away.
“Hey, wait!” said Phil. “I need to show you the ropes.”
“I know all about ropes,” said Isabella, shifting her weight slightly. “You want me here about five or so?”
“The Senior Sunset Discount is five-thirty to six. Five is good.”
“That will give me time to check your ropes,” said Isabella with a smile and left.
Phil, slightly stunned, went back to Will and the last few pots.
“What’s she doing here?” Will looked up from the latest pot.
“Our new waitress.” said Phil, taking the dish towel off his shoulder. He picked up a pan, patted it dry, and hung it on a hook over the prep table.
“You’re shitting me. What’s Mr. Eberhardt got to say about this?”
“Maybe she’s slumming.” Phil picked up another pan.
“Princess Isabella?” Will rinsed the pot and set it on the drain board. “I’ll bet ten to one Eberhardt’s ditched her without giving her a dime. Looks like she’s gonna have to support herself now.”
“You know anything about her waitressing background?” asked Phil.
“Sure. Before Eberhardt decided she was hot stuff she waitressed in just about every eating place on the Island.”
“How come?”
“How come what?”
“Job hopping,” said Phil.
“No one ever fired her, I don’t think. Better pay at the next new place, better tips, better working conditions. I think a couple times she was tired of the boss hitting on her.”
“I can see why,” said Phil. “How do you know about her?”
“We dishwashers get around,” said Will. “Better pay, better working conditions…”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Phil. “Wonder what happened?”
“You mean, Eberhardt and her?” Will picked up the last pan and submerged it in the sink water. It sank to the bottom with a gurgle. “My guess is your friend, Samantha, had something to do with it.” He looked over at Phil, who at the mention of Samantha’s name assumed an expression of distaste. “You never did tell me what happened between you and Samantha.”
“You don’t want to know.” Phil tossed his dish towel onto the drain board and stalked away, ignoring the remaining pots.
“Hey,” said Will. “Finish the damn dishes.”
“Go to hell,” said Phil.
CHAPTER 31
The unidentified injured man who’d been wheeled into the hospital’s emergency room in critical condition on Tuesday night, hung on, hour after hour, with no change. He’d been examined, cleaned up, taken to the intensive care unit, and hooked up to a battery of life-saving machines and fluids. There was no sign of approaching death, but no sign of improving life either.
Sergeant Smalley of the state police had been called in late Tuesday evening as soon as Doc Jeffers, who was on duty at the time, determined that the man had suffered injury at the hands of party or parties unknown.
“Hey, Doc.” Smalley offered Jeffers his hand. Doc Jeffers gave it a slap.
The doc was wearing a green cotton scrub suit. A tuft of white hair showed in the V of the neck. He peered at Smalley over the top of his half-frame glasses. “Glad you could make it. Come on into my office.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it. Always enjoy your l
ate-night parties.” Smalley was in full uniform, his black boots highly polished as usual.
They went into the office. Doc Jeffers sat behind his desk and Smalley took the guest chair facing it.
“Okay, Doc, who was he?”
“Bruno Eberhardt.”
Smalley leaned back in his chair and whistled. “Is that right!”
“He’d not dead yet,” said Doc Jeffers.
“Is he going to make it?”
Doc Jeffers shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Who found him?” asked Smalley.
“His Brazilian housekeeper, Maria Lima. She cleans three days a week.”
Smalley leaned forward. “She call 911?”
The doc nodded. “She did all the right things. Called 911, didn’t touch a thing, didn’t try to doctor him and make things worse, laid a light blanket over him, stuck around waiting for the ambulance, and answered all our questions.”
“Where was he when she found him?”
“In his study.”
“Door closed?”
“The door was open,” said Doc Jeffers. “That’s what alerted her. His study was off limits to her cleaning. He always kept the door shut.” Doc Jeffers opened a drawer, took out a tissue, removed his glasses, and polished the lenses. “So when she cleaned this afternoon she didn’t go into the study.” He put his glasses back on. “As usual the door was shut.”
“But she found him this evening,” said Smalley, still leaning forward. “And she’d cleaned this afternoon?”
“This afternoon she saw a van with red letters on the side, the next drive over. She thought that was odd since the house next door wasn’t occupied.” He dropped the tissue he’d used on his glasses into the wastepaper basket and shut his desk drawer. “She’d forgotten to water the plants, so she decided to use that as an excuse to return and see if the van was still there. She passed it on the road heading toward Aquinnah.”
“Did she notice any identifying features about the van?”
Doc Jeffers laughed. “Bright red letters. A foot and a half tall. ‘Two Brave Haulers.’”
“Leo and Bucky Minnowfish,” said Smalley.
“You got it.”
Smalley made a note. “Guess I need to talk to them.”
Doc Jeffers continued, “So she went into the house, saw the study door open, and you know the rest.”
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