“No problem,” said Finney, a bit uncomfortable now that he’d mentioned numbers. But she was part of the company, he told himself, and he felt better thinking that. He lifted his coffee cup. “The best coffee I’ve tasted in a long time—Dorothy.”
“I’m glad you like it, Finney.” Dorothy leaned toward him. “You must have wonderful contacts. I’m sure they think highly of you to trust your judgment.”
Finney shrugged and started to demur, but Dorothy exclaimed, “Here’s our breakfast!”
Courtney was wheeling a serving cart down the path. As it approached, the aroma of bacon and sausage and cinnamon made Finney realize how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten much the day before. He’d been too tense about the meeting with Nanopoulos and his partner.
Courtney lifted the lid of a chafing dish. Two golden omelets oozing melted cheese and topped with chives, and a half-dozen little sausages, and another half-dozen rashers of bacon.
Courtney reached to a lower shelf on the cart where a magnum of champagne was chilling in an ice bucket. Holding the bottle in a linen napkin, she showed it to Finney.
“Good heavens!” said Finney, looking at the label.
Dorothy put her hand on his arm. “If you don’t see what you like, just ask,” she said, and she smiled.
Courtney eased the cork out of the bottle and poured the champagne into two flutes. “Will there be anything else, madam?”
“No, thank you, darling. That’s lovely. We can take care of ourselves from now on.” She glanced at Finney. “Can’t we, Finney,” she added after Courtney had wheeled the empty cart away.
“Perfection,” said Finney, raising his glass.
Dorothy held her own glass up. “To the success of a perfect project.”
After that, they talked in general terms about the project—general because Finney didn’t understand the technology at all and Dorothy apparently didn’t, either. Finney made a feeble offer to check some information on his laptop, but Dorothy insisted that could wait. They toasted each other with champagne and served themselves fresh strawberries with thick cream poured on top.
“You must try honey on the strawberries,” said Dorothy. “It’s Island honey produced by Island bees.”
“Island bees,” Finney murmured. “I’m allergic to bee stings.” He nodded at the screening under the grapes above them. “I’m glad to see you keep your yellow jackets contained.” He held up the honey jar to the morning sun.
“Local honey is supposed to alleviate allergies,” said Dorothy. “Go ahead, try it.”
“I don’t think that applies to insect stings.” He said again how much Angelo would have liked to be involved with the project and how Angelo thought the project was a winner. This theme was voiced repeatedly throughout breakfast and the magnum of champagne.
“When do you expect to pay off the rig?” asked Finney.
“I’m leaving that up to my accountant to work out,” said Dorothy. “I think micromanaging is so unprofessional.”
“Very wise,” said Finney.
“What do you think of Orion?” asked Dorothy abruptly.
Following the sudden change in topic, Finney had to think a moment. “I just met him yesterday, but he seems like a competent guy. Intelligent. Certainly knows his stuff. Why do you ask?”
Dorothy toyed with her spoon, making swirls of honey and cream on the bottom of her crystal bowl. “Did he seem, well, I don’t like to say anything.”
Finney leaned forward and put his hand on top of hers. “If it’s anything to do with the company or the project, tell me.” He realized how much he enjoyed the company of an older woman, especially a wealthy one.
“Not really,” said Dorothy, blotting her mouth with a dainty linen napkin. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Out with it,” said Finney, feeling manly.
“It’s nothing, really. I think I’m just overly sensitive, and it seemed to me he’s been under a great deal of pressure lately. Please, forget I said anything.”
“Of course,” said Finney. “A project like this is bound to create a lot of pressure.”
“That’s right,” said Dorothy. “He’s such a sweet man; I hate to see the pressure getting to him. I’m sorry, Finney, darling. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
But when Finney was in the Mercedes on his way back to Vineyard Haven, he spent the time thinking how he could check up on Orion Nanopoulos’s mental stability without being too obvious.
CHAPTER 11
While Finney and Dorothy were breakfasting alfresco, Victoria was cutting a bouquet of black-eyed Susans. She happened to look toward Sean’s beehives and saw a pineapple-shaped black object hanging from the wild cherry tree. When she looked more closely, she realized the object was a mass of bees in constant motion. She went into the house as quickly as she could and called Sean.
“Your bees are swarming. They’re hanging from a branch. What would you like me to do?”
“Nothing. I’ll be there shortly.”
“I’ll keep an eye on them,” said Victoria.
“Keep your distance,” said Sean.
He arrived ten minutes later.
“Are they leaving the hive?” Victoria asked.
“These are.”
“That’s the end of the hive then?”
He shook his head. “That’s how bee colonies reproduce. Half the hive takes off with the old queen and a new queen develops in the old hive.”
“It’s alarming to see that many bees in a swarm.”
“They’re not usually aggressive when they swarm. They’ve got other things on their minds.”
He slipped his legs into the white suit and stuck his arms into the sleeves. “That’s not to say they won’t attack when they’re swarming. They will if they’re threatened.”
He pulled the suit over his shoulders, zipped up the front, lifted the hood onto his head, and pulled the gauntlets over his hands.
Victoria watched as he held an open wooden box under the swarm and knocked it gently into the box as if it were some exotic fruit he was harvesting. He closed the lid.
Victoria applauded the performance from her seat.
“You’ve got eight hives now, Mrs. T. At least you will if the bees like their new home.” Sean shed his suit and stowed his tools away. Finished, he found a towel in a corner of the truck, and came over to Victoria’s bench. She moved over to make room for him.
“Hot work,” he said, wiping his face with the towel. “Hear you came down with Lyme disease.”
Victoria nodded.
“Join the gang.” He held out his hand and she shook it. “How’re you doing? That doxycycline make you nauseous?”
“A bit,” said Victoria, and changed the subject. “Do you know Dorothy Roche?”
“Hah!” said Sean. “What makes you ask about her?”
“She invited me to lunch last Saturday.”
“Lucky you.” Sean rubbed his neck with the towel.
“Where does she get her money, do you know?”
He draped the towel around his shoulders. “As far as I know, she doesn’t have two cents to rub together.”
“She lives on North Water Street.”
“Is she paying for it? Or some male friend.”
“What do you know about her?” asked Victoria.
Sean reached down, pulled up a blade of grass, and stuck the end in his mouth. “First saw her maybe three months ago at a selectmen’s meeting.”
“Where Orion spoke?”
“She was in the audience acting like some big deal. Talked to him after and they went off together.”
“She’s investing in his company.”
“Yeah? Has he seen the money?”
“She’s buying a drill rig as a share in the company.”
“She is, hey?” Sean chewed on his grass stem, then tossed it aside. “Has Orion seen a purchase contract?”
“Parnell Alsop drew up a contract.”
“Him!” Sean spit out a st
rand of chewed grass, stood up, and stretched. “Gotta go, Victoria. Mrs. Wingfield’s got bees in her barn.”
“And honey?”
He nodded. “Any progress on the murder investigation?”
Victoria scowled. “I have no idea. They’re not sharing information with us.” She looked up at him. “Can you save the honey?”
“By the time I get it out of there, if I can melt the wax without burning down her barn, it’ll be full of debris. Worthless.” He got into his truck, rolled down the window, lifted a hand, and took off.
* * *
Finney Solomon stopped by Orion’s office after his breakfast with Dorothy Roche. He plopped into the chair he’d occupied the day before and set his briefcase down.
“How was your breakfast?” Orion asked.
“Impressive woman.” His speech was only slightly slurred. “Knows her stuff. Excellent taste in champagne.” He touched his briefcase with deliberate care. “Whole magnum.”
Orion nodded. “What time’s your flight?”
Finney looked at his watch carefully. “Three o’clock. Not quite two now. I’ve checked out of the hotel.”
“We’ll leave for the airport in a few minutes. Any last-minute odds and ends we need to tie up?”
Finney said, “She’s an important member of your team.”
Orion nodded.
“You signed the contract?” Finney asked.
“Casper signed it and left it for me to look over. I haven’t signed yet.”
“No hurry, far as I’m concerned,” said Finney, brushing an imaginary crumb off his trousers. “Take your time. I’ve got a few items to look into.”
“Do you need any other information from me?”
“I’m all set,” said Finney, getting to his feet.
On the way to the airport, Finney was understandably quiet, and Orion didn’t attempt to converse with him.
They pulled into a parking place at the airport, went into the waiting room, and Finney checked in at the Cape Air counter. “A hundred and ninety-seven pounds,” he informed the gray-haired woman at the counter before she asked. “Gained two pounds at breakfast this morning.”
She smiled and noted his weight.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said to Orion. “Send me the signed contract so I can get to work.” They shook hands. Finney went through the security check, the Cessna taxied up to the gate, and Orion went out the side door of the airport to where he’d parked. He climbed in and sat for a while, waiting until the Cape Air flight left.
He felt vaguely troubled.
Finney had been distant, strange, and it seemed to be something other than the half-magnum of champagne he’d consumed a couple of hours earlier. He’d have to discuss Finney with Dorothy, next time he met with her.
He backed out of the parking space and headed to the office.
* * *
Finney felt a bit queasy on the short flight to Boston. He leaned his face against the cool glass of the Cessna’s window and shut his eyes. That was a memorable breakfast with Dorothy. What a woman! An experienced woman. A wealthy woman. Finney sighed.
In Boston he made his way to the departure gate. After he’d boarded, he settled into a window seat where he could again rest his face on the cool glass.
Finney Solomon was new at the venture capital game. He had a two-year degree in business from a community college and had interned at a couple of places during that time, a bank and a mortgage firm. Years ago his father had introduced him to the great Angelo Vulpone. He’d been just a little kid at the time and was awed by the powerful man. Once he decided on a career like Vulpone’s, he tried unsuccessfully to meet with him, and instead, kept an Angelo Vulpone scrapbook of articles about him. Through the articles, Vulpone became Finney’s mentor, at least according to Finney.
Finding financing for Universal Fiber Optics would be a piece of cake, according to Angelo, quoted in a recent business column. High-tech communications was a sure thing, didn’t matter what the economy was doing. The only trick to it, Angelo had said, was making sure the right person was managing the project. You needed a man with a combination of brains, expertise, courage, and personality. Plus a degree of cold-bloodedness, a focus on the project so intense that not much else mattered. The columnist had ended by writing that in Orion Nanopoulos, Angelo believed he’d found the right person.
Finney knew nothing about the technology, nor did he care. Orion knew what he was doing. His plan made sense. He’d convinced Angelo that an optical-fiber network for the Island was not just for better cell phone reception, but so emergencies could be dealt with at the speed of light.
But now that he’d breakfasted with Dorothy, he sensed her reservation about Orion. She’d assured him she hadn’t meant to say anything negative, and of course, she hadn’t. One of his strengths, Finney believed, was his sensitivity to nuances. He’d check around, see what other Islanders thought. He wasn’t about to make a decision involving fourteen million based only on that whiff of concern of Dorothy’s. The trouble was, he didn’t know any Islanders.
When he got back to his apartment in Union City, he called Dorothy. He thanked her again for the delightful respite from his heavy schedule, told her again what a great asset she was to the project. He said, “I’m doing a routine check of Nanopoulos. Can you suggest a couple of Island people I might talk to?”
“Of course, Finney, dear,” said Dorothy. “Hold on a minute while I get my address book.”
She was back on the phone shortly. “Here are three people who know him well. Denny Rhodes, a West Tisbury selectman; Parnell Alsop, my attorney; and Daniel Pease, the head of the Department of Public Works.” She gave him the phone numbers. “I’m sure they’ll help you. Call me if you need anything else, Finney, dear.”
Finney noted the names and numbers on his yellow legal pad.
Dorothy asked, “How was your flight from the Island?”
“I was busy and hardly noticed,” said Finney, who hadn’t remembered much about either flight. “Again, thanks.” He needed to disconnect in a hurry because quite suddenly, he wasn’t feeling so great.
CHAPTER 12
The night had turned cool, so Victoria lighted a fire in the parlor. Orion came home to a comforting blaze.
“Would you care for a glass of wine?” he asked.
Victoria set her book down. “Alcohol apparently slows the effects of the doxycycline. I’m not supposed to drink.”
“Cranberry juice, then.” He turned toward the kitchen.
“Actually, I don’t think a small glass will hurt.”
Orion returned with two wineglasses and a bottle of Bug Light Red. Victoria told him about the bee swarm and Orion shuddered, almost spilling the wine.
“According to the beekeeper, bees aren’t terribly aggressive when they’re swarming.”
“All the same, I’ll keep my distance,” said Orion, handing her a glass, half-full.
“Just to be safe, where do you keep your antidote?”
“In my car,” said Orion. “An EpiPen. You twist off the cap and jab the cylinder at your thigh.”
“Through clothing?”
“It’s designed to be used quickly,” said Orion.
Victoria said, “I suppose I should have an EpiPen in case a guest is allergic to bees and gets stung.”
“I’ll get one for you. Once you use it, you’re to call nine-one-one.” He dropped a log onto the fire, sending up a shower of sparks, and sat down.
“How did yesterday’s meeting with the venture capitalist go?” asked Victoria.
“I don’t know.” Orion set his glass on the small table next to him. “Finney Solomon is young, which isn’t necessarily a drawback. But he has nothing to offer. Simply a promise that he’ll come up with fourteen million within six months. He expects us to pay a retainer.”
“You haven’t signed anything yet, have you?”
“Not yet. By the way, he had breakfast with your friend this morning.”
“
Dorothy?”
Orion nodded.
“What did he have to say about her?”
“Not a great deal,” said Orion. “They finished off a magnum of champagne…”
“A magnum!” exclaimed Victoria. “That’s an entire bottle each. Good heavens!”
“La Grande Dame, according to Finney. That much he told me before he clammed up. I took him to the airport and he didn’t say a word the whole way.”
“Small wonder,” said Victoria. “Where does Dorothy get that kind of money?”
“Family money, I assume,” said Orion.
“She’s not from old money. I can tell.”
“I don’t care where the money comes from, Victoria. She’s buying the Ditch Witch drill. That’s a fact.”
“When will you start using it?” She wasn’t about to tell him the beekeeper’s opinion of Dorothy Roche’s wealth.
“Friday,” Orion said. “Three days from now.”
“It’s going to rain,” said Victoria.
* * *
The next morning, Victoria walked slowly to the police station, each step an effort. She hoped it was the doxycycline and not advancing age. She refused to think about it. Instead, she thought about Dorothy Roche deluding Orion and probably that wealthy Finney Solomon as well.
What on earth was the matter with men that they could be so easily misled by a false smile and a dab of perfume?
Then it occurred to her. Perfume was nothing but a pheromone, a chemical that caused behavioral changes in animals. Including men.
Dorothy was daubing herself with pheromones, a queen bee attracting drones for a deadly mating flight. Victoria stabbed her lilac-wood stick into an anthill without thinking, and the ants hustled to mend the damage. She moved on. Orion was not behaving logically. But how could he behave logically if he was chemically bewitched?
She reached the police station, not even aware of the cars that had passed on the Edgartown Road, or the lowering sky. When the ducks dozing under the rosebush got to their feet and gathered around her, she snapped out of her reverie. She’d brought stale bread, as usual, and shook it out of the paper bag onto the grass, then folded up the bag and tucked it into her pocket. She climbed the steps to the station house, entered, and dropped into the armchair in front of Casey’s desk.
The Bee Balm Murders Page 7