The Bee Balm Murders

by Cynthia Riggs

  The Ditch Witch drill was parked behind Trip Barnes’s Moving and Storage in an area of junked vehicles and construction debris. The rig glistened and sparkled in its surroundings, as out of place as a coat and tie at a clambake. Orion, Casper, and Finney Solomon walked over the rough ground to the rig.

  This was Orion’s first opportunity to examine the machine closely, and he walked around it, studying it with interest. To him, an engineer, it was perfection. The entire rig was not quite twenty feet long, about seven feet wide, and, on the trailer, about ten feet tall. Compact.

  “So this is it!” said Finney. “A lot of action packed into a pretty small package.” He smiled down at Orion.

  “It’ll do the job,” Orion said, feeling irritated for some reason. On the way from the airport, he’d done most of the talking. Casper had said almost nothing. Now, Orion could look at Finney directly, see his face and find out who this man was. All he knew was the guy had been a friend of Angelo Vulpone’s and claimed to have connections to venture capitalists.

  Orion and Finney walked around to the front of the Ditch Witch drill and stood on either side of the trailer hitch, while Casper checked out the rear.

  “You have an engineering background?” Orion asked.

  “My background is strictly financial,” said Finney. “I’m depending on you to tell me what I need to know.”

  “This is the first time I’ve been able to examine the rig,” said Orion.

  “Do I understand an investor bought the rig in exchange for a share in your company?”

  “That’s right,” said Orion.

  Finney scratched his chin. “Did he buy it outright?”

  “She,” said Orion. “Dorothy Roche. She worked out some kind of payment plan with a finance company.” He noticed a fleeting skeptical look on Finney’s face. “She’s wealthy. Lives in Edgartown, expensive cars, expensive house. No question of money.” Orion put his foot up on the trailer hitch to relieve his back. “According to her, financing it is the best route.”

  Finney looked thoughtful. “Sometimes it is. How did she get involved?”

  “She apparently has contacts in New York who’d heard about our fiber-optic project. She attended a selectmen’s meeting where I spoke and came up to me afterward.”

  “I’d like to meet her, talk to her. Would you mind calling and introducing me to her?”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “I’d planned on leaving in the morning, but I can rearrange my schedule to leave later.”

  “I’ll set up a breakfast meeting for you. I’m sure that would work for Dorothy.” Orion’s back was beginning to ache, so he stepped over the trailer hitch and they moved around to the side of the machine.

  “This rig even has cruise control,” Orion said.

  Finney grinned. “You’d drive this down the road using cruise control?”

  “It’s not that kind of cruise control,” said Orion. “The operator can set the drilling speed and then just monitor the unit while it drills. Less fatigue and increased production.”

  He showed Finney where the drilling fluid was stored. He pointed out the mud pump. The operator’s controls. The pipe rack. They walked partway along one side and Orion was about to point out the new tracks, not a speck of dirt on them, when Finney said, “Impressive. But I’ve seen enough. Time to talk business.”

  Casper was tagging along after the other two and spoke up for the first time since they’d stopped at Trip Barnes’s. “Finney’s right. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

  Orion felt, somehow, as though his machine had been slighted. He’d begun to think of the Ditch Witch drill as his very own, and wanted to show Finney everything. Finney hadn’t seen the anchoring system. Orion hadn’t yet sat up in the operator’s seat. He itched to climb aboard and examine the controls. He turned away and walked over to his station wagon, patted its side, and climbed in.

  They drove from Trip Barnes’s up Main Street and then over a block to Orion’s office, and parked behind the two-story frame building. The three climbed the outside stairs and Orion unlocked the door, which opened onto a large, airy room with skylights and windows on two sides and a drafting table in the center.

  Finney Solomon took off his sports coat and slung it over the back of a chair, opened up his briefcase on the drafting table, and the three sat down to business.

  “How did you and Casper get connected?” Orion asked.

  “Angelo Vulpone was my mentor,” Finney said. All three paused for a moment of respect in Angelo’s memory. “I knew about your project and after Angelo’s death I contacted Casper here.” He nodded at Casper, who was sitting to his left. “Angelo was a genius at spotting winners, and he was confident your project was a winner. He said his investment would pay off many times over, big time.”

  Casper nodded. Orion looked down at the table.

  “That’s why I’m interested,” said Finney. “When Angelo decided to invest in a construction project, it was a platinum seal of approval.”

  Orion produced several thick folders from a locked file cabinet and spread maps and diagrams and copies of permits in front of Finney, lists of contacts, lists of town officials, lists of equipment owned, leased, or required, budgets, schedules …

  Finney examined everything. Two hours later he said, “How much additional capital are you looking for?”

  “Fourteen million,” said Casper.

  Finney took out his iPad and worked it with a stylus. “Shouldn’t be a problem to raise that.” He looked over and saw Orion’s doubtful expression. “Believe it or not, it’s easier to raise fourteen million than it is to raise fourteen thousand.”

  “How long will it take to raise?” asked Orion, fishing a notebook out of his shirt pocket.

  “Guarantee you’ll have money in hand in six months.”

  “What do you mean by guarantee?”

  “You’ll have your fourteen million dollars. Period.” Finney’s voice was flat.

  “And your take is?” asked Orion, his pen poised over the notebook.

  “A monthly retainer for six months, and two percent of the funds raised.”

  Orion worked some figures. “Two percent of fourteen million comes to two hundred and eighty thousand, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what’s your modest monthly retainer?”

  “Five thousand plus expenses,” said Finney.

  Orion scribbled some more. “Thirty thousand.” He looked up. “Three hundred thousand plus, for six months work? And I assume you’ve got other jobs going at the same time as well.”

  Finney didn’t answer.

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  Finney grinned. “Fourteen million is a lot of money.”

  Casper had been silent during this exchange. Orion turned to him. “What do you think, Casper?”

  Casper sat where a shaft of sunlight from the skylight struck his hair, turning it an almost fluorescent orange. He was doodling stars and dollar signs on the pad in front of him. “If he can raise fourteen million in six months, it’s worth every penny of it.”

  “If he can’t,” Orion stood, “we’re out thirty thousand plus expenses. Plus time. I want to see the contract.”

  Finney reached into his open briefcase. “Here it is. Look it over.” He slid a green plastic binder, legal size, down the table to Orion.

  Orion sat again and glanced at the contract. He turned to Finney. “You brought your CV with you, too, I assume.”

  Finney shuffled through papers in his briefcase and produced a document in a blue plastic binder. “There’s a one-page resume on top. The rest is background.”

  Orion leafed through the slickly produced document. “We need to think about this for a while. How soon do you need an answer?”

  “I’m in no hurry,” said Finney. “As you surmised, I have other projects.” He snapped his briefcase shut. “You’re the ones under time pressure.”

  CHAPTER 10

 
Dorothy Roche invited Finney to breakfast the next morning at her house. She’d send her car, she said.

  “The hotel is only a few blocks from here,” Orion told Finney. “I’ll drive you there.”

  Finney snapped his briefcase shut. “Appreciate it.”

  “Mind dropping me off on West Chop?” asked Casper.

  “Sure. No trouble,” Orion said.

  “Aren’t you staying at the hotel?” asked Finney.

  “I’m visiting an old college friend.” Casper gathered up the papers they’d spread out on the drafting table and Orion stowed them in the locked file cabinet.

  After they settled Finney at the Mansion House, Orion continued up Main Street toward West Chop.

  “What do you think?” asked Casper.

  Orion grunted. “I’m not impressed.”

  “He claims he can raise fourteen million.”

  “So he claims.” Orion slowed to let a woman with a dog cross the road in front of them. She waved her thanks.

  “Any other suggestions, Orion?”

  “You talked to the car dealer, Roger Paulson?”

  “By phone. He’s a cranky, stubborn guy.” Casper gazed out at the glimpses of the harbor through trees. “As I told you, he offered to invest seven million, but he wants a share in the company.”

  “How did you learn about him?”

  “He came to me,” said Casper. “He heard about your presentation at the selectmen’s meeting and checked up on you and the project.”

  The West Chop light came up on their right, its beam feeble in the bright afternoon. Orion slowed. “Where’s the place you’re staying?”

  “On the dirt road straight ahead.”

  “Before we go any farther, let’s talk money.” Orion pulled over next to the lighthouse. “Can you get Roger Paulson to accept non-voting shares? I don’t want any investor taking a percentage of the company.”

  “You gave Dorothy a percentage.”

  “That may have been a mistake. I wasn’t thinking straight. I should have offered her shares of profits rather than a percentage of the company. But we need the drill and she’s buying it.”

  Casper shrugged. “I’ll meet with Paulson, try to talk him into accepting your proposal. But I’m in favor of giving Finney Solomon a chance. He’s talking double what Paulson is willing to invest.”

  “I won’t close my mind to Finney. But Paulson has a place on the Island, wants fast communications, and the system will make money for him. Use that approach.”

  * * *

  When Orion came home that evening, Victoria was in the parlor reading. Orion sat in the rocker.

  Victoria put her book aside. “How’s your back?”

  “Not bad. How are you feeling?”

  “The Lyme disease medicine makes me a bit queasy, so I try not to think about how I feel.”

  “You’re on doxycycline?”

  “For twenty-one days. Seventeen more to go.”

  “I haven’t talked to you since your luncheon with Dorothy on Saturday. How was it?”

  “Lovely. We ate in the garden under the grape arbor.”

  “Have you changed your opinion about her?”

  Victoria thought for a second. Orion was clearly taken with Dorothy, and she wasn’t sure how candid she could be. “She was a perfect hostess. Everything was just so.”

  “But?” Orion rested his elbows on the chair arms and laced his hands together. “You’re not answering.” His pleasant expression took the sting out of the rebuke.

  Victoria reached for the glass of water on the end table. “She’s really not my sort, I’m afraid.”

  “Why so?”

  “Everything seemed artificial, almost temporary. Even Dorothy, herself, was playing a role of some kind.”

  Orion leaned forward slightly. “For example?”

  “Her driver and maid are summer help. The house isn’t her own. I’m sure it’s rented. It’s like an expensive hotel. Yet Dorothy pointed out improvements as though they were hers. She’s had cosmetic surgery on her face. It was all part of the artificiality.”

  “For some reason, I was under the impression you’d known her for some time,” said Orion.

  “Hardly. She was introduced to me at a gallery opening two months ago, and immediately after she was introduced, a more noteworthy celebrity on the other side of the room attracted her attention and she excused herself.”

  Orion’s pleasant expression returned. “Perhaps the luncheon was an attempt to make amends.”

  “The luncheon was because she believes she can use me in some way. How, I don’t know.” Victoria picked up her glass and wiped off the condensation that had formed a wet circle on the end table. “If I were you, Orion, I’d be careful. She’s not at all what she seems to be.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Tim parked Dorothy’s Mercedes in the loading zone across from the Mansion House. He crossed Main Street and went into the lobby where Finney Solomon was seated, legs crossed, reading The Wall Street Journal.

  “Mr. Solomon?”

  “Yes?” Finney looked up. “From Ms. Roche?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m parked across the street.”

  Finney arose, folded the paper and tucked it under his arm, picked up his briefcase, then followed Tim out to the car. They drove in silence toward Edgartown. Finney worked his laptop; Tim concentrated on avoiding the early morning summer people who wandered down the middle of Beach Road, talking on their cell phones, figuring, apparently, that since they were on vacation, no harm could come to them.

  Finney looked up briefly from his laptop. “What’s holding things up?”

  “Traffic, sir,” said Tim, who knew better than to honk the horn.

  They drove through Oak Bluffs, quiet this early in the day, and along State Beach, with banks of wild roses on their right and blanketing the low dunes to their left. Beyond the dunes, the waters of Nantucket Sound shaded from pale green to a rich ultramarine far out. Tim looked over to Finney to see if his passenger appreciated this stretch of the Island, but Finney was intent on his laptop. He stopped typing briefly to answer his cell phone, which had rung with a snatch of Pachelbel’s Canon, said a short sentence that Tim couldn’t make out, and snapped the phone shut.

  “Reception is poor,” he said to Tim. “Is this usual?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Tim.

  Finney went back to work without further comment.

  Tim slowed at the outskirts of Edgartown and inched along in a tangle of cars past the Triangle, past the Stop & Shop, and onto Edgartown’s Main Street. Left onto North Water Street and, voilà! Home.

  His home, Tim told himself, at least for the summer. In September, the Island would disappear into the mist like Brigadoon, not to appear again until next summer.

  * * *

  Dorothy met Finney at the door. She was older than Finney had expected, probably late fifties. Well-preserved, he told himself. Looking at the beautifully maintained house he decided he liked older women.

  “I’m delighted you could come, Mr. Solomon,” she said. “I see you’ve brought your laptop. We’re going to have a wonderfully productive meeting. You do want coffee, don’t you? Or would you prefer tea?”

  “Coffee, please,” said Finney. “Black.”

  “Just the way I like mine!” exclaimed Dorothy, clasping her hands under her small chin in a charmingly girlish way. “Courtney will bring our coffee to us in the garden. And we can be private there.” She smiled up at him. “And breakfast whenever we want. I’m sure you’re hungry?”

  He smiled at her. “Sounds like a plan, Ms. Roche.”

  She pointed to herself and looked up at him. “I’m Dorothy. May I call you Finney?”

  Finney looked down at her and nodded.

  They went out the side door, past the fishpond, down the slate path, and seated themselves under the grape arbor at the glass-topped table. He set his laptop on the paving.

  “Nice,” said Finney, leaning back in his wrought-
iron chair. The filtered light coming through the grapevines gave Dorothy’s face an attractive softness. “Peaceful here. How long have you had this place?”

  “It’s my summer house,” said Dorothy. “Here’s Courtney now with our coffee. Thank you, darling. You can leave the coffeepot on the table. And Courtney, dear, we’ll have breakfast whenever you have it ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Courtney, and walked lightly down the garden path toward the house.

  “Nice girl. Has she been with you long?”

  “‘Woman,’ dear.” Dorothy patted his hand. “She’s a student at Brown. Why don’t we get right down to business.”

  “Good idea,” said Finney, taking a sip of the excellent coffee. “I understand you’re buying into Universal Fiber Optics, Nanopoulos’s company.”

  “I’m acquiring the Ditch Witch horizontal directional drill as my share in the company. Isn’t that a wonderful name for such a machine!”

  Finney glanced up at the safely contained grapevines above them. “Orion tells me you’re financing the rig.”

  “According to my accountant, that was the most advantageous way for me to do it.”

  “Sometimes it is,” said Finney cautiously. “How did you hear about the fiber-optics project?”

  “A friend mentioned it. I wanted to learn more.” She looked over the rim of her delicate cup at Finney. “So I went to the selectmen’s meeting and heard Orion speak and, well, I was impressed.”

  “Rightly so,” said Finney. “He knows what he’s talking about. My friend, Angelo Vulpone—”

  Dorothy clasped her hands again. “I’m so sorry. I heard you were great friends. What a tragedy.”

  “A great loss. Angelo endorsed the fiber-optics project so strongly, we won’t have any trouble raising the money we need.” Finney took a sip of coffee. “Did you know Angelo, by any chance?”

  Dorothy looked away. “Not well.” She smiled. “How much do we need?”

  Finney was caught off guard by the “we.” “The project cost is estimated at twenty-four million. Nanopoulos has commitments for ten, so we need an additional fourteen.”

  Dorothy gazed at him with admiration. “And you’ll be able to raise the whole fourteen million?”