The Bee Balm Murders

by Cynthia Riggs

  He needed to meet Tris Waverley, this mysterious neighbor of his before he confronted Dorothy. In his present mood he was quite capable of murdering her.

  He retraced his steps down the outside stairs, walked across the driveway, and knocked on the side door. Until now, his only view of Tris Waverley had been the top of his head, usually covered by a baseball cap. He knocked again, harder. Footsteps pounded down wooden stairs and the door was flung open by a tall, thin, comfortably homely man wearing thick glasses and a Red Sox baseball hat.

  When he saw Orion, the guy swallowed and his Adam’s apple rose and fell. “Help you?”

  Orion held out his hand. “I’m your next-door neighbor, Orion Nanopoulos. About time I said hello. Tris, isn’t it?”

  “Sure. Yeah.” They shook. Tris’s hand was limp and damp. “Waverley. Tris Waverley. Nice to meet you.”

  “Here for the summer?” Orion asked pleasantly, wiping his hand on the seat of his pants.

  “The summer. Yeah.” Tris leaned awkwardly against the door frame, blocking the entrance.

  “I’ve got a couple bottles of Sam Adams in my office fridge. Why don’t I bring them over.”

  “I’m in the middle of something…”

  “An hour, then,” said Orion. “Give you time to get to a stopping place.”

  The guy swallowed again. His glasses had steamed up. “Why don’t I come over to your place in, say, forty-five minutes.”

  “No way. My place is a mess.” Orion was compulsively neat and his office was anything but a mess. “I’ll bring the beer over in forty-five minutes. Give you time to hide whatever it is you’re working on.”

  “Look, I…”

  Orion turned, said over his shoulder, “Nice to meet you, Tris,” and walked away.

  He went back to his office and got on the Internet, something he’d meant to do earlier. He keyed in Tris Waverley. The ElecTris Web site popped up with a picture of Tris and Marylou Waverley and a list of products and services the company offered. Surveillance was on the list.

  Orion started to pick up the phone to call Casper, but thought for a moment. He set the phone back into its cradle and reached into his pocket for his cell.

  Casper answered.

  “Bad news,” said Orion. “Dorothy owns the title to the rig. The bills have been sent to us.”

  “We’ve been paying them?”

  “Amanda’s got authority to pay anticipated bills. She knew we were acquiring the drill. Eight thousand a month.”

  Casper said, “Where does that leave us? What does the contract with her say?”

  Orion shifted through papers on his desk. “Says that Dorothy agrees to acquire a Ditch Witch horizontal directional drill in return for a twenty-percent share in the company.”

  “Anything say she’s putting up the money?”

  Orion took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The word ‘acquire’ doesn’t actually mean she’ll pay, does it?”

  “You plan to talk to her, Orion?”

  “As soon as I hang up I plan to strangle her. Which brings up another possible problem.”

  “I’d better sit down,” said Casper.

  “The renter next door used Dorothy as reference. He owns a shop in Quincy that does electronic surveillance.”

  “You’re on your cell phone, I take it,” said Casper. “They’re not entirely safe, either, you know.”

  “Safer than the landline. You have my cell number.”

  “You plan to speak to Dorothy before strangling her?”

  “Face-to-face,” said Orion.

  “Call me after you straighten this out. Don’t do anything rash. It may be a simple misunderstanding.”

  “Unlikely,” said Orion, and hung up. He decided the call to Dorothy didn’t matter, and used the office phone.

  “Dorothy,” he said.

  “Darling!” said Dorothy. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to stop by for a chat.”

  “That’s sweet, darling. Come for a drink this afternoon. Wait a minute.” Orion heard the rustle of papers. “Not this afternoon. What about Friday?”

  “Can’t do it. What about tomorrow?”

  “Tuesday, hmmm.” More rustling of pages. “Thursday is the best I can do. Around five, would that be convenient?”

  “It will have to be,” said Orion.

  He spent the next half-hour going over his log of phone calls to determine what sensitive information he’d been feeding Tris Waverley next door.

  Most calls were to Casper. They’d discussed finances. He’d shown concern about Finney Solomon. No real problem. The setup was too obvious. Dorothy was smart enough to know he could detect the surveillance. Unless she was smarter than he thought. Did she want him to know he was spied on?

  Orion checked his watch, gathered up four bottles of Sam Adams and an opener, and headed for Tris Waverley’s.

  CHAPTER 18

  Tris Waverley ushered Orion into the kitchen, a bleak place with yellowing appliances and flickering overhead fluorescent lights, a chrome-legged table with a chipped green Formica top, and two chairs. The refrigerator, which had been humming loudly, shut off with a shudder. In the silence that followed, Orion heard a steady drip.

  In an attempt to be light he said, “If that’s hot water, I hope you’re not paying the utility bill.”

  “It’s the cold,” said Waverley.

  Orion set the Sam Adams on the table and took the chair closest to him, the one with the fewest cracks in its stiff, marble-patterned vinyl seat.

  Waverley was leaning against the sink.

  “Nice place,” said Orion, shifting his feet to a less sticky spot on the linoleum. “You’re here for the summer?”

  “Right,” said Waverley.

  “Working vacation?” Orion slid a bottle and the opener across the table. “Have a seat. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Waverley sat awkwardly on the chair that matched Orion’s and pried off the bottle cap.

  “I hear you’re in electronics,” said Orion.

  “How’d you hear that?” Waverley ran a hand up and down the cold bottle.

  “Word gets around this Island.” Orion opened his own beer. “A working vacation means surveillance, I gather.”

  “Look, Mr. Nanopoulos, what I do is confidential.”

  “Call me Orion. We’re neighbors, after all.”

  Waverley lifted his beer and drank.

  Orion said, “Is your sister running your store now?”

  Waverley took another swig and set the bottle down. He stood again. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to chat. I gotta get back to work.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Orion, leaning his chair back on two legs. “How much is Ms. Roche paying you?”

  Waverley choked on his swig of beer. He breathed in and started to cough.

  “You okay?” asked Orion, still leaning back in his chair, hands in his pockets.

  Waverley coughed some more.

  Orion set his chair down on all four legs and leaned forward slightly. “Want a slap on the back?”

  Waverley shook his head.

  “Lift up your arms. Sometimes that clears your air passage,” Orion said.

  Waverley turned his back to Orion and lifted his arms.

  “I’m going over to Dorothy’s for drinks on Thursday, as you probably heard,” said Orion.

  Waverley coughed again and sat down. “Who are you?”

  “Not a friend of hers, apparently.”

  “Look, I do what I’m hired to do.” Cough. “I’m not the bad guy in this.” He adjusted his glasses.

  Orion looked for a recycling container, didn’t see one, and left his empty bottle on the table. “I think we know who the bad guy is. Might as well continue to monitor my calls. Only my landline, not my cell?”

  Waverley, still seated, nodded slightly.

  “She paid you yet?” asked Orion.

  “A retainer.”

  “Has the check cleared the b
ank?”

  “Cashier’s check.”

  Orion nodded. “Better collect what she owes you before you let it go too long. She pay your rent?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d make sure she does, if I were you, since your name’s on the lease.” He stopped at the door and turned. “You can have the rest of the beer.”

  * * *

  On Wednesday, Dorothy’s chauffeur met Finney’s flight, direct from New York. A cool breeze whispered through the fence as the attendant opened the gate. Finney was the only passenger to disembark.

  Tim greeted him. “Morning, sir. Want to stop at the Mansion House before going on to Ms. Roche’s?”

  “Please,” said Finney.

  “Any luggage, sir?”

  Finney held up his gym bag and attaché case. “Short trip.”

  “We’re parked right over there.” Tim indicated the Mercedes near the gate. “Have a good flight, sir?”

  “Fine,” said Finney, preoccupied with his expenses.

  “Nice weather we’ve been having,” Tim said as they drove away from the airport. He looked in the rearview mirror. “You don’t get weather like this in Boston in July. Hot and steamy there, according to the radio.”

  “Umph,” said Finney, and Tim shut up.

  At the Mansion House, Finney registered for one night, went to his room and washed up, and took a manila folder out of his briefcase. He checked his image in the large mirror by the door, turning sideways to see how he’d appear to Dorothy from that angle, then went down the stairs and out onto the hotel’s porch. Tim was parked across Main Street and opened the passenger door. Finney got in.

  They drove the familiar route to Edgartown, past the shipyard, the fuel oil tanks, the canoe rental place. They crossed the bridge over the opening into Lagoon Pond, past the hospital, and past the Oak Bluffs Harbor.

  Wild roses formed a fragrant pink, red, and white border on either side of State Road. It was still early in the morning, but cars already were parked on the beach side of the road. Bathers and sun worshippers unloaded coolers and umbrellas, picnic baskets, radios, and towels.

  Edgartown was scented with roses. Yellow, pink, and white blossoms covered white picket fences in front of white painted captains’ houses.

  They turned onto North Water Street, and Finney’s resentment rose. Why couldn’t she have invited him to stay at her place? She certainly had enough room.

  “Here we are, sir.” Tim opened the door. Finney emerged, too busy with his thoughts to acknowledge Tim. He went up to the big front door and lifted the brass knocker.

  “Darling! I didn’t expect you so soon. How was the flight? Have you had breakfast?”

  “An easy flight, thanks. I didn’t have time to eat.”

  “Well, we’ll take care of that right away.” She led him down the front hall and into the library where a wide window overlooked the garden. A couch and two comfortable armchairs faced a fireplace at the other end. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls.

  “I’ll ask Courtney to get us something to eat, and while she’s fixing it, we can talk.” Dorothy bustled out of the room. Finney stood by one of the bookcases, examining the titles. The books, most of them leather bound, included fiction, biographies, and scientific treatises on obscure subjects. They were arranged by size, not by subject.

  He barely had time to glance at the books when Dorothy returned. “There, now. Make yourself comfortable, darling.”

  “Impressive library,” said Finney.

  “I’m glad you like it.” She seated herself in one of the armchairs and Finney sat across from her in the other. She said, “How are the prospects with the financiers?”

  Finney patted his folder. “Only a matter of time.”

  “We don’t have much time, Finney. Have you impressed upon them the importance of our project?”

  “They understand. But as you well know, those of us with money have it because we’re careful with it. Orion has the contract, but hasn’t signed it yet.”

  Dorothy smiled. “Are you sure he should sign it?”

  Finney shifted uncomfortably in the soft chair. “I don’t know. I called the references you suggested, and, well…” He left the sentence unfinished.

  “Since I’m his partner, I ought to be able to sign.”

  “It requires his signature, I’m afraid.”

  Dorothy pouted. “What was your impression after talking with the references?”

  This was an area in which Finney felt more comfortable. “The answers I got were guarded, naturally. The head of Public Works said he didn’t want to talk about Nanopoulos, and the selectman claimed Orion was, to quote him, ‘out of his mind.’”

  “Oh dear,” said Dorothy, clasping her hands under her chin. “I was afraid of that. Poor Orion has been under such stress. I had a feeling he might even be suicidal.”

  “Really!”

  “Such a shame. He’s such a bright man.”

  Finney cleared his throat. “I’ve decided I need to remain on the Island for a few more days.” Now was the time Dorothy could offer to let him stay in her house.

  “Good idea,” said Dorothy.

  Finney cleared his throat again. “I thought of trying a bed-and-breakfast, getting to know the Island.”

  “I’m not sure that’s where you’ll find the investors. But you know best.” She frowned. “Do you have any thoughts about this deplorable situation?”

  “You mean about Orion?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s clear that he must step aside,” said Finney. “Away from the stress that’s driving him so, so…”

  “You needn’t go on. It’s too pitiful.”

  “I think we’re on the same page, Dorothy. I believe you should talk to Orion.”

  She nodded.

  “For his own health,” said Finney. “We’ll be custodians until he can take over again.”

  “You’re so perceptive.” Dorothy looked up at the sound of the wheeled cart coming down the hall. “Here comes our breakfast. You must be starving.”

  * * *

  While Finney and Dorothy were plotting against him, Orion was waiting in line for the three-car ferry to take him over to Chappaquiddick to meet with Roger Paulson.

  The ferry docked, the chain was lowered, and Orion drove on board, the first car. The captain slid wooden chocks in front of his tires, collected his fare, and headed out across the harbor. Through his windshield, Orion had a disconcerting view of open water.

  “Pretty rough today,” he called out to the captain.

  “Since the ocean cut through, the current’s unpredictable. May take five minutes to cross.”

  “Using more fuel?”

  “You got it.”

  They angled into the slip on the Chappy side and Orion drove off the ferry. He found his way to the gate to Paulson’s property, and was buzzed in.

  As he drove down the long approach to Paulson’s mansion, he noticed two stocky, reddish bay horses with light muzzles and upright manes cropping the pasture grass. He slowed to look more closely. The horses had stripes on their legs, almost like zebras.

  He drove slowly, thinking about the horses. He parked and Paulson greeted him from the top of his stairway.

  “Fine car you’ve got there,” said Paulson.

  Orion patted the side of his Chevy. “It’s been good to me. I understand you know cars.”

  “Largest distributorship on the East Coast. C’mon up.” Paulson indicated the stairs.

  “Impressive,” said Orion, looking up at the high roof. “Both the distributorship and your house. You’ve put a lot of work into both, that’s obvious.”

  “I started at the bottom, washing cars at a dealer’s. Worked my way up,” said Paulson, leading the way into the kitchen. “Put in eighteen-hour days, seven days a week.”

  “You deserve this.” Orion gestured with his hand.

  “Sit down,” said Paulson. “Your partner says you’re not interested in releasing voting
rights. I have to tell you, if I’m shelling out seven million, I want a say in how the company’s run.”

  “Understandable,” said Orion. “I took the same route you did, shoveling stable manure, grooming horses, sweeping floors in an engineering firm, and hitting the books at night school. Twenty-four/seven.”

  “You like horses?” asked Paulson.

  “I do,” Orion said.

  “Got a couple of my own out there.” Paulson gestured to the pasture where the horses stood, nose to tail.

  “They’re beauties,” Orion said. “Przewalskis.”

  “You do know horses.” Paulson grinned. “Not many people recognize them. Most are in zoos.”

  “Horses were my first love.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “I took a few too many falls,” said Orion. “It’s a young man’s profession.” The horses broke apart and trotted out of sight. “Let me ask you this, Paulson. In your business, have you given investors a say in your company?”

  “Hell, no.”

  Orion smiled. “We think alike. I understand you had some dealings with Angelo Vulpone.”

  Paulson stood up and went to the window. “My dealings with Vulpone have led me to be cautious. Damned cautious.”

  “I understand he was responsible for your wife’s—”

  “Stop!” said Paulson. He turned and sat down again, his face dark with barely controlled rage.

  Orion moved away from the subject of Angelo Vulpone. “Universal Fiber will be a moneymaker.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Paulson folded his arms over his chest. “I’m not interested in making money. I’m interested in running your company.” He looked at his watch.

  Orion noticed and stood. “I’ve taken up enough time.”

  “I was checking to see how close to lunchtime it is. Care to join me? We’ll talk about horses, not business.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got to go.” Orion offered his hand and Paulson stood again and they shook. “Pleasure meeting you and a delight to see, in the flesh, the horses depicted in those ancient cave paintings.”

  “Keep my offer in mind. I’ll be a lot easier to work with than Angelo Vulpone ever would have been, guaranteed.”