“Was the front door locked?”
“Of course not.”
Smalley looked up from his note taking. “Was that customary for him? He’s wealthy. A lot to protect.”
“Yes,” said the doc. “Arrogant SOB. Maria wasn’t sure a key to the front door even existed.”
Smalley snorted. “This damned Island and its security.”
Doc Jeffers nodded. “Lack thereof.”
“What are the chances he’ll make it?” asked Smalley.
“He’s in bad shape. He’d been lying there at least a full day before Maria found him. A wonder he’s alive.” Doc Jeffers stood, pulled up the waist of his scrub pants and retied the cloth tape belt. “We’re doing all we can. Some of the best physicians in the Northeast work here.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“Not that I can think of,” said the doc. He reseated himself on the corner of his desk. “Have you had any progress in finding his daughter’s killer?”
“None,” said Smalley. “Same modus for father and daughter. Both hit on the back of the head. Any idea what object would do it?”
“Something thin and heavy, same in both attacks. Tire iron, golf club, poker. Something like that.”
“Would it take much strength to inflict that kind of damage?”
“Yes and no. If the assailant is close and can’t get momentum into his swing, he’ll need strength. Back up a little where he can give it a good, long swing, not much strength at all. A slight woman could have done it.”
“Call if anything changes, will you? Whether he dies or looks like he’ll recover. Any time. Day or night.” Smalley snapped his notebook shut and stood. “Good luck.”
“We need more than luck,” said the doc. “We’re with him twenty-four hours a day.” He rose from his seat on the desk-top. “Is it likely the assailant knows he’s still alive?”
“No way of knowing. Half the people on this Island have scanners. Someone for sure heard the EMTs picked up a critically injured male at the Eberhardt residence.”
“Do we need to request a police guard?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. We are seriously shorthanded. I took my team off that parsonage fire and death investigation to work another case.”
“I’ll let you know if there’s any change.”
“If you have to cut the twenty-four/seven watch for whatever reason, call me.” Smalley started to walk away, but turned. “The housekeeper, Maria Lima. You have a number for her?”
“I’ll get it for you.” Doc Jeffers went to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out an address book. He peered through the bottom half of his glasses, scribbled a number on a scrap of paper, and handed it to Smalley.
“Thanks, Doc,” said Smalley. “Have a good night, what’s left of it.”
* * *
Early the next morning Bucky and Leo were hosing down their van when Chief VanDyke showed up. They were working in the shade of the large maple in front of their garage. Sunlight filtered through the leaves making a pattern of sun dots on the ground. A mourning dove cooed.
Leo was crouched next to the van, washing one of the wheel wells. Bucky was leaning against the doorframe, eating an apple.
“Morning, boys. Nice day.”
“Howdy, Chief,” said Leo.
“See you’re hard at work, there. Mind if I sit and watch?”
Leo glanced up. “Bucky, get the chief a chair.” He continued to scrub the wheel well.
Bucky tossed the apple core aside, brought out one of the folding chairs, and opened it up. The chief straddled it and set his arms on the back.
“I hear you had quite a time yesterday,” he said.
Bucky looked at Leo. Leo continued to wipe the wheel well.
“Getting that pretty clean, I see,” said the chief.
“We didn’t do anything,” said Bucky. “We were just…” his voice trailed off. Leo was glaring at him.
“Let me get right down to business,” said the chief. “Someone spotted you at Eberhardt’s place yesterday. Care to explain?”
“We just wanted to get…” Bucky glanced again at Leo.
The chief turned to Leo. “Maybe you’d better explain. You were staking out Eberhardt’s place. You can take it from there.” He paused briefly. “Might just as well tell the truth. It’s easier in the end.”
Leo stood and threw down the rag he’d been using. “We wanted to get Izzy’s stuff back. So we watched his place. Didn’t see his car. Figured he was off-Island and went in.”
“You didn’t find Isabella’s belongings, did you?”
Leo shook his head. “Empty boxes.”
“The ones I had my men pack up here.”
Bucky was standing a couple of feet from the chief to one side of the garage door. “Where is Izzy’s stuff?”
Chief VanDyke laughed. “Eberhardt took it to the West Tisbury dump.”
“All her clothes?” Bucky sounded aghast. “The dump? He just threw them away? Like thousands of dollars of clothes?”
“The recycling shed,” said the chief. “Bunch of ladies Isabella’s size going through old clothes are now wearing designer dresses.” He smiled. “But we digress.”
Bucky moved over to where Leo stood on the far side of the van.
“Spit it out, Chief,” said Leo.
“Eberhardt was there, wasn’t he. You found him.”
“We didn’t kill him,” protested Bucky. “We was—”
“Watch it, Bucky,” said Leo.
“Nothing to watch,” said the chief. “You could have killed him. Next time you do a stakeout—if there ever is a next time—better not use a vehicle everyone on this Island recognizes.”
“We had nothing to do with it,” said Leo. “So what do you want from us?”
“Nothing, at the moment. At some point I’ll be taking you in to talk to the state police.”
“They can’t touch us,” said Leo.
“For murder?” The chief laughed. “Oh yes they can. Rules have changed, sonny.”
* * *
After Doc Jeffers left, Sergeant Smalley called the tribal police chief. “Got a delicate situation here, Josephus. You available if I come up to tribal headquarters in about an hour?”
“Of course,” said the chief. “What’s up, John?”
“I’d just as soon talk to you in person.”
“I’ll be here.”
An hour later, Smalley showed up at tribal headquarters. He and Chief VanDyke went into the chief’s office. A large map of Martha’s Vineyard covered one wall. Most of the westernmost end of the Island was tinted a pale green.
Smalley went over to the map and examined it.
“Tribal lands are in green,” said Josephus. “By the way, that was an interesting meeting of the Island police chiefs the other day.” He indicated a chair beside his desk for Smalley. “What can I do for you, John?” The chief sat behind his desk.
Smalley, too, sat. “Has to do with the question you asked about jurisdiction.”
“You mean about tribal members and homicide?” The chief set his forearms on the table.
“Right. I want to ask you, off the record, was it the Minnowfish brothers you were referring to?”
“Their van was identified as being at the scene of the murder,” said VanDyke.
“Have they been in trouble before?”
The chief lifted an arm and waggled his hand, palm down. “When Isabella left Bruno Eberhardt, her brothers cleared out not only all of her clothing from Eberhardt’s house, but broke into Eberhardt’s safe as well. They stole fifty thousand dollars in cash, as well as jewelry Eberhardt had given Isabella worth an estimated fifty thousand more.”
Smalley whistled. “Did you handle the situation in your inimitable way?”
“Nicely put,” said the chief. “My men and I returned things to Mr. Eberhardt.”
“Clothing, too?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Just out of curiosity, why th
e clothes?”
The chief shrugged. “Mr. Eberhardt, a generous man, felt that his generosity had been imposed upon when his safe was burgled.” He shrugged again. “Retaliation?”
“Do you have a problem with us taking the Minnowfish boys in for questioning?”
“Not at all. I’ve already spoken to them.”
“We’ll handle this as discreetly as possible, so as not to trespass on your prerogatives.”
“Much appreciated,” said the chief. “Does that cover what you wanted to discuss with me?”
“Yes. I don’t trust phones or electronic devices.”
“Wise. Much too accessible to the public,” the chief said. “Then, if business is over, can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, but I’d better get back.” Smalley stood.
The chief stood, too. “Always good to work with you, John.”
“You, too, Josephus.”
As they walked to the door, the chief said, “Unfortunate about Eberhardt’s death.”
“You haven’t heard?” said Smalley.
“Heard what?”
“Eberhardt just might pull through.”
“Is that right,” said Josephus. “I assumed he was dead.”
“It’s touch and go,” said Smalley. “But we’ve got top medics here at the hospital, and they’re giving him a fighting chance.”
“Wonderful news,” said the chief. “Is he conscious?”
“Hasn’t regained consciousness yet. He had a serious, near-lethal head injury.”
“Terrible, terrible,” said the chief, shaking his head. “I assume he’s being guarded?”
“The hospital has a twenty-four/seven watch on him, monitoring his signs. They expect him to regain consciousness any time now.”
“Do you have police guards as well?”
“Not enough,” said Smalley.
“I’ll assign two of my men to help. In fact, I’ll take a watch, too,” said the chief. “I feel responsible since tribal members may be the culprits.”
“Of course,” said Smalley. “That would be a great help. You don’t need written approval, but I’ll let them know anyway.”
“Thanks, John. Terrible that a thing like this could happen here on the Island.”
Smalley nodded. “Both Eberhardt and his daughter, the same modus. Undoubtedly the same perp. Or perps, if it’s the Minnowfish brothers. Wonder what they had against the daughter? Assuming they’re the ones.”
“From what I understood, Samantha Eberhardt was asking for trouble.”
Smalley nodded. “I think every town on the Island felt the impact of her personality.”
“That’s for sure.” Josephus held out his hand and they shook.
CHAPTER 32
One morning a week, Casey drove Victoria to the nursing home connected to the hospital where Victoria spent an hour or so reading to the patients she called “the elderly.” Wednesday was her day to read. Casey pulled up in front of the entrance.
“I’ve got an Island police chiefs’ meeting at eleven, Victoria, so I may be late.”
Victoria had already made a date for lunch with Dana Putnam. “I’ll have lunch in the cafeteria.”
“The hospital’s food is better than good,” said Casey. “If I get through early, I’ll join you.”
Victoria walked slowly down the long corridor studying the artwork on the walls. The hospital was quite literally an art gallery. The walls in every corridor and every room of the hospital and nursing home were adorned with original Island art—oils, watercolors, photos, and sculptures.
She arrived early at the activity room, where several occupied wheelchairs were pulled up in a semicircle before an empty armchair. Three or four people were seated on couches or chairs. Victoria always felt a bit nervous before she read, as though she was onstage performing.
She sat in the armchair facing her audience and set her bag of poetry books on the floor.
“Good morning.” She looked around at her group. As usual, only four or five of those present acknowledged her. Victoria had the feeling that most of them didn’t care whether she read or not. They were here because it was a break in the monotony of their day.
She read a few of her own short poems, and then she read poems from A. A. Milne’s When We Were Very Young. She liked the rhythm of his poetry and her audience responded better to his poems than to hers. She must remember to bring more short, spritely poems.
The hour passed. Those in wheelchairs were then wheeled away. Each week while she packed up her books, the same two women stayed a few minutes longer, one who was able to walk to the readings, the other who could wheel herself. Both wore bathrobes and slippers. Victoria’s own grandmother would never have allowed her to wear nightclothes out of the bedroom. Certainly not in public.
“I love to hear you read, Mrs. Trumbull,” said the walker. “I loved hiking the Island’s trails, and you bring back to me the lovely places I used to walk…” her voice trailed off.
The woman in the wheelchair said, “I’m sorry the others don’t seem to appreciate your work. But really, they do. They like to see you and hear your voice.”
“Thank you,” said Victoria, touched.
* * *
The cafeteria was only a short walk from the activity room, but Victoria was out of breath when she got there, so she sat at one of the tables to rest before buying her lunch.
Dana Putnam, the nurse who was new to the Island, was to meet her here.
She was resting, thinking about what she would like to eat, when the nurse showed up. He was wearing green hospital scrubs and had short dark hair and black-framed glasses that emphasized his bright blue eyes.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “You must be Victoria Trumbull.”
She started to rise.
“Don’t get up.” He had a pleasant, deep voice. He offered her his hand and she shook it.
“And you are Dana Putnam.”
He bowed slightly. “I haven’t bought my lunch yet. May I pick up something for you?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Victoria, reaching for her wallet.
“No, no, Mrs. Trumbull. This is on me. I get a discount.”
“A cup of clam chowder, then,” said Victoria, smiling up at him. A good large nose, not as large as her own, of course, clean shaven so she could see his strong chin.
“Would you like a small salad to go with the chowder? I’ll split an egg salad sandwich with you.”
“Both sound delicious.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Save my seat for me.”
She was rearranging her books in her cloth bag when he returned with a loaded tray.
Victoria examined the dishes. “Can we eat all that?”
“I think so,” he said. “I’ve worked up an appetite dealing with one emergency after another in the ER, and you’ve earned your lunch.”
He set the food out and they ate, talking in between mouthfuls about the hospital, the art, the food, the views from the windows.
He laid down his fork and wiped his hands on his napkin. “I know you’d like to talk to me about Emily and Samantha Eberhardt.”
“If it’s not too painful.”
“It’s painful, all right,” he said, “but I want to explain to the world what a stupid mistake I made.”
Victoria picked up her spoon. It seemed unfitting, somehow, to dip it into her chowder while he was talking. She set the spoon down.
“I suppose you know I’m divorced. I was awarded custody of Emily.”
“Your ex-wife? What about her?” asked Victoria, not sure that was the right question.
“We parted on civilized terms. She is bipolar and is hospitalized on occasion. She loves Emily desperately and agreed that Emily would have a more stable home with me.” He was digging into his own cup of chowder between sentences. His appetite didn’t seem to be impaired by talking about his troubles, so Victoria picked up her spoon again. “As it turned out, Emily would have been far bette
r off with her bipolar mother.”
“Is Emily all right now?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Emily got hooked on some drug Ms. Eberhardt had her clique obtain for her. She’s now in a drug treatment center in Boston. It’s expensive and I can see her only rarely. My ex-wife had a serious relapse and holds me responsible for that, and she holds me responsible for Emily’s addiction. And I don’t blame her.”
Victoria said nothing.
“I’ve gotten to know some of the other parents,” he continued. “We have a support group. Samantha Survivors.” He paused. “All of us have our kids in expensive treatment. None of us can afford the treatment. As a group, we decided to contact her father, Bruno Eberhardt, who has more money than he knows what to do with. We figured he’d be sympathetic and might like the idea of doing something decent with his money, like funding scholarships for drug treatment.”
“And what happened?”
“He refused to meet with us. Refused to believe his Samantha was involved with drugs. Brushed us off. Now, I understand, he’s planning to sue the support group for defaming his daughter and has accused us of covering up for the killer. He assumes it’s one of us.” He looked over at Victoria with a smile. “Could be. Hard to know who to put money on. There’s enough anger among us to float a battleship. Killing Samantha?” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Nothing to it.”
“Didn’t any of you realize what was going on?”
He shook his head. “Samantha Eberhardt seemed a nice young woman. Attractive, well-spoken, just the older sister you’d like your kids to have. They flocked to her and they wanted to emulate her.”
“Didn’t your children show signs of addiction?”
“We parents talked about this. We didn’t expect our kids to get involved in drugs. We’re all single parents, no partner to give a second opinion. What we all noticed was our kids’ grades dropping. We all attributed that to our kids missing their mom or dad, and we tried to make up for that by being more lenient than we would have been otherwise.” He bit into his half-sandwich.
“Will Emily recover from the addiction?”
“I don’t know.” He set the sandwich down. “I don’t know if anyone ever fully recovers from drug addiction. Find another addiction, like fishing, maybe, to substitute for the kick drugs give you.”
Trumpet of Death Page 21