“Did you kill Samantha, too?” asked Victoria.
Chief VanDyke turned to Sergeant Smalley. “I assume none of this is being taped, John?”
Smalley nodded.
“And I assume this is all quite informal?”
Smalley nodded again.
“I’ll take my chances at trial.”
“You did kill Samantha,” said Victoria.
“Yes, Mrs. Trumbull. I did.”
“Why?”
The chief lifted his coffee mug in a kind of salute to all. “I met Samantha through my dealings with Bruno. I was attracted to her. My vital juices flowed again. I was in love.”
“What about your wife?” asked Smalley.
“The same sorry and tiresome story. A husband cheating on a wife who didn’t deserve to be cheated on.”
“That foggy night a couple of weeks ago, was that when you killed her?” asked Victoria.
“Yes.” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I was driving from Aquinnah that night and almost hit a small car that had skidded on the slick road into my path. Shortly after, I realized it was Samantha’s car. I’d come close to killing her.” He looked up, and again the wry smile. “Ironic, isn’t it.” He sat forward and took a sip of his coffee. “I doubled back to her place to see if she was okay. I thought I was in love with her, you know.”
Victoria nodded.
“We had a glass of wine at her cottage, then I suggested we go back to my place. She took her car.”
“Where was your wife?” asked Smalley.
“Off-Island, visiting her mother in Albuquerque.”
“So you went back to your place,” prompted Victoria.
“One thing led to another. I was as randy as a teenager. Things seemed to be going fine until the third or fourth glass of wine took effect and she started bragging about her conquests.” He rubbed his forehead. “Then teasing me about my performance. She went on and on and on. I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t stand it. I don’t know what got into me. I could see only glaring red light flashing before my eyes. I grabbed my rifle, which I keep on a shelf above my bedroom door, and smacked her on the back of the head with the butt end.”
“Killed her,” said Smalley.
He nodded. “I knew right away I’d killed her. I got cold sober in a hurry. I knew I had to take her body as far from Aquinnah as possible and decided to drop her off the municipal pier in Edgartown. Let the tide carry her out to Nantucket Sound and the creatures that feed on carrion. It was late at night and I could hardly see.”
Ben came in with a fresh pot of coffee, looked at the sober faces, and left without pouring. The ferry whistle sounded. A car passed in front of the barracks. A second car passed.
“I loaded her body into my pickup,” the chief continued. “Then saw she was too obvious. I park my truck beside the Brave Haulers garage where there’s a big tree. Wind had piled up leaves behind the garage. I didn’t have a tarp to cover the back of my truck, so instead I scooped up leaves and heaped them on top of her body to conceal it.”
“Why dump her body on the bicycle path?” asked Victoria.
“A mistake.” He shook his head. “The night was calm. But halfway to Edgartown the wind came up. Leaves started blowing off. I had to get rid of her before she was uncovered and a passing vehicle saw her. When I came to that small valley on the Edgartown Road, I backed in and unloaded her. Covered her with leaves and left.” He shrugged. “I smoothed out the tire tracks with a branch.”
“We found the tracks, but you did a good job of obliterating the identifying prints,” said Smalley. “Mrs. Trumbull, anything else?”
She turned to Josephus. “You set fire to the parsonage. Why?”
“I had no idea the boy was in there. I regret that.”
“Why did you burn the parsonage?” said Victoria.
“The building was a gathering place for Samantha and her friends. I suspected drugs were involved. The building was old, derelict, and unsafe. The current owners had abandoned it. I thought to purify the site.” He smiled. “An ancient Indian site. I had followed Samantha and waited until I saw her and her followers leave.” He looked up.
“The boy never should have died.” He looked away again. “I poured paint thinner around the foundations and lit a match.” He held out his hands, palms up. “You can arrest me now, John.”
Smalley took a card out of his wallet. “Your Miranda rights, Josephus. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court…”
CHAPTER 38
Several days later, Victoria, Elizabeth, and Zack were eating breakfast together, blueberry muffins, bacon, and eggs.
“What have they decided to charge you with, Zack?” asked Elizabeth.
“Miranda Smith, my lawyer, told the judge there was nothing in the books to justify charging me with anything. She said thinking about making someone sick and not following through with it was not a crime.” He helped himself to a second blueberry muffin. “But the judge ordered me to do fifty hours of community service anyway.”
“What will you do?” asked Elizabeth.
“Help maintain trails at Sachem’s Rock.”
“Don’t pick any mushrooms,” said Victoria.
“No, ma’am,” said Zack. “My boss has invited you to a party he’s throwing this afternoon to celebrate my freedom.”
So when Elizabeth came home from the harbor that afternoon, they got into her convertible and headed toward Chilmark. The late afternoon light was golden and mellow. Splashes of scarlet marked poison ivy twining around fenceposts. The Norway maples were a bright yellow against the deep blue sky. They passed Doane’s hayfield, where a flock of Canada geese was browsing on the stubble. They passed the tiny police station and the Mill Pond, where the swans sailed with their nearly grown cygnets. They waved at the regulars sitting on the porch at Alley’s Store and continued past the gas station and crossed the town line into Chilmark. The road now was bounded by the stone walls of Chilmark, each new stretch of wall was a distinctive piece of art that showed the builder’s creativity. They passed the Allen sheep farm with its spectacular view of the Atlantic beyond the rolling meadow where sheep grazed, and came to the crossroads where the beetlebung trees had turned their distinctive dark maroon.
They were met at the Beetlebung Café by Phil Smith and a woman with long, sleek, black hair.
“Mrs. Trumbull, this is my wife, Miranda,” said Phil, his arm around her shoulder.
“Thank you for acting on behalf of Zack,” said Victoria.
“I’d have gotten him off even if he had killed her,” said Miranda.
“Here’s Isabella,” said Phil, as she came into the dining room carrying a tray loaded with hors d’oeuvres. “She’s been bringing in so much business, I’m expanding.”
“You know what he’s paying me?” said Isabella. “Three-fifty an hour.”
“Plus tips,” said Phil. “Her tips have rocketed it up to close to twenty an hour.”
Victoria helped herself to a crab cake. “How are your brothers?” she asked.
“Same old,” said Isabella. “They’ll never change.”
“Does anyone know how Bruno is doing?” asked Phil.
“It looks as though he may recover fully,” said Victoria. “I’ve been going to see him at the hospital, and over the last couple of days he’s agreed, after much consideration, to fund several scholarships at the drug treatment center. Brooke, Benjy, and Emily have all qualified.”
Will brought out a chilled bottle of Champagne. Phil eased out the cork and poured it into flutes for all. He held up his own glass. “A toast to Victoria Trumbull, and another case solved.”
OTHER MARTHA’S VINEYARD MYSTERIES BY CYNTHIA RIGGS
Deadly Nightshade
The Cranefly Orchid Murders
The Cemetery Yew
Jack in the Pulpit
The Paperwhite Narcissus
Indian Pipes
Shooting Star
Death and Honesty
Touch-Me-Not
The Bee Balm Murders
Poison Ivy
Bloodroot
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CYNTHIA RIGGS is the author of the Martha’s Vineyard mystery series and the guidebook Victoria Trumbull’s Martha’s Vineyard. She started writing the series while earning her MFA at Vermont College at age sixty-eight. Prior to becoming an author, she qualified for the 1948 Olympic fencing team, was the seventh woman to set foot on the South Pole, and crossed the Atlantic twice in a thirty-two-foot sailboat. Riggs gives weekly lectures on board tourist ships during the summer and shepherds two writing groups. She lives in West Tisbury, Massachusetts, where she runs a bed-and-breakfast out of the homestead that has been in her family for eight generations. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Other Martha’s Vineyard Mysteries by Cynthia Riggs
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
TRUMPET OF DEATH. Copyright © 2017 by Cynthia Riggs. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustration by Ken Joudrey
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Names: Riggs, Cynthia, author.
Title: Trumpet of death: a Martha’s Vineyard mystery / Cynthia Riggs.
Description: First Edition.|New York: Minotaur Books, A Thomas Dunne Book, 2017.|Series: Martha’s vineyard mysteries; 13
Identifiers: LCCN 2017000724|ISBN 9781250122674 (hardcover)|ISBN 9781250122674 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Trumbull, Victoria (Fictitious character)—Fiction.|Women detectives—Massachusetts—Martha’s Vineyard—Fiction.|Martha’s Vineyard (Mass.)—Fiction.|BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths.|GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3618.I394 T78 2017|DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017000724
e-ISBN 9781250122674
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First Edition: April 2017
Trumpet of Death Page 26