The Bee Balm Murders

by Cynthia Riggs

  “Three times what Uncle Bruce earns, twelve million, more or less. Uncle Bruce was jealous of my father.”

  A bee flew in through the open door and made its way into the cookroom, where it bumbled against a windowpane.

  “That’s a honeybee,” Victoria said. “Bring me a glass. I’ll trap it and you can let it out.”

  Once the bee was released, she asked, “Is your uncle connected with the mob?”

  “I don’t know,” said Primo. “My father dealt with the mob. Most construction companies in New York and Jersey do. Uncle Bruce isn’t in construction, though.”

  “The mob has control over many entertainment facilities, I understand.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Primo said. “Uncle Basilio recently got involved in some kind of side business that seems to bring in as much as his television studio.”

  “Mob connected?” asked Victoria.

  Primo shrugged. “I have no way of knowing. He’s secretive about the business. But he makes sure we know how much money he’s making. Vulgar, my mother says.”

  “How is your mother?” Victoria asked.

  “My father’s death is a terrible shock, of course. But she’s a very strong woman. And she’s got Umberto and me.”

  “Were you close to your father?”

  “I respected him. He trained my brother and me to take over his business, but we weren’t close like father-sons.”

  “Tell me more about your uncle.”

  “Uncle Basilio always competed with Father. He wanted a bigger house, a more beautiful wife, more money. It goes on and on.” He stopped, his expression clouded. “Not anymore.” He sat up straight. “The fact that he has no children is a terrible blow to his ego.”

  “And your aunt, what about her?”

  Primo looked down at his cooling tea. “Aunt Maria Rosa. She’s all right.”

  “You don’t sound enthusiastic.”

  “It’s this way, Mrs. Trumbull.” He paused. “It’s … that is … Uncle Basilio, Uncle Bruce…”

  Victoria nodded.

  “He’s involved with another woman,” Primo blurted out.

  “I should think you’d be upset with your uncle rather than your aunt.”

  “My aunt won’t confront him.”

  Victoria wasn’t sure what to say. She asked, “Do you know who the other woman is?”

  “I saw him with her at a restaurant, but I have no idea who she is.” Primo finished his cookie and washed it down with a few more sips of tea. “Aunt Maria Rosa was the most popular girl in Uncle Bruce’s class. I’ve seen photographs of her when they got married. Amazing green eyes. She was quite beautiful.”

  “But?”

  “Well, she’s kind of let herself go.”

  “She knows about the other woman?”

  “Oh, yes. She knows all right.”

  “Where are you staying, Primo?”

  “At the Harbor View, Mrs. Trumbull.” Primo stood. “I’ve booked a suite there for three weeks.”

  “July into August? That will cost a fortune.”

  “Mrs. Trumbull, we are hunting down my father’s killer. No expense is too great.” He followed Victoria into the kitchen. “The car and I are at your disposal.”

  Victoria smiled. She was beginning to accept the fact that the Bentley Flying Spur was her car, at least temporarily. “Let me get my hat and bag,” she said.

  CHAPTER 23

  Primo parked the Bentley at the small West Tisbury police station and held the door for Victoria. “Would you like me to go in with you, Mrs. Trumbull?”

  “No, thank you, Primo. I won’t be long.”

  Casey, on the phone, looked frazzled. She waved a hand, and Victoria perched on the edge of her usual chair and waited for the chief to get off the line.

  When she did at last, Casey swiveled her chair around to face her deputy. “What can I do for you, Victoria?”

  “I came in to see what progress we’re making on the Angelo Vulpone investigation.”

  Casey leaned back and sighed. “Victoria, it’s not ‘we.’ The state police have everything under control. That call was from them.”

  “From Sergeant Smalley?”

  “None other.”

  “What did he have to say?” asked Victoria.

  “No progress, witnesses, or evidence. Too much mud.”

  “Angelo Vulpone’s sons have asked for my help,” said Victoria. “They believe the police aren’t doing enough.”

  “The cops are working their tails off. And the Vulpone sons think you can solve this?” Casey rose from her chair. “Keep your nose out of this investigation, will you?” She set her hands flat on her desk and leaned toward Victoria.

  Victoria’s face flushed. She stood. “Thank you.” She rose from her chair and marched straight to the door, shut it firmly behind her, descended the stairs with straight-backed dignity, and headed for the waiting Bentley.

  Casey immediately burst through the door after her and called from the top of the steps. “Sorry, Victoria. I shouldn’t have said that.” She paused. “A Bentley?”

  Primo was holding the door open for Victoria, whose back was plumb-line straight, her face a bright pink.

  “Victoria?” said Casey, hurrying down the stairs as Primo shut the car door. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she said to the closed door and tinted window that showed only her own reflection.

  Primo, from the driver’s seat, said, “Mrs. Trumbull?”

  Victoria held up a regal hand. “To Orion’s office.”

  As Primo reversed out of the station’s oyster shell parking area, Casey faded away behind them, standing at the foot of the station house steps.

  Primo glanced in the rearview mirror at Victoria, whose mouth was set in a firm line.

  “Would you like to talk about it, Mrs. Trumbull?”

  There was a second’s pause. Then Victoria said, “The idea! The very idea! Treating me like a ten-year-old.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Primo, who obviously wasn’t sure what had happened in the police station.

  “And furthermore, according to her, the police are doing nothing about your father’s death. Nothing whatsoever. Blustering to cover up their lack of progress.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They drove in silence down Old County Road past the school, past Whippoorwill Farm.

  Victoria stroked the fine leather seat next to her. “We’ll show those amateurs how an investigation should proceed.”

  Primo glanced again in the rearview mirror.

  “First, to Orion’s office,” she said.

  Primo stopped at the stop sign at the end of Old County Road. “I’m afraid I don’t know where his office is.”

  “Ah,” said Victoria. “Of course.” She sat up straight and gave him directions. Her color had reduced itself to two bright pink blotches high on her cheekbones, looking much like war paint.

  * * *

  They found Orion, not at his office, but on Water Street near the Steamship Authority dock. He was studying a map he’d spread out on the hood of his car, his reading glasses in place, and he was pointing out something with a steel ruler to a bearded young man standing next to him. He looked up quizzically as the Bentley pulled up. He removed his glasses and, glasses in one hand, ruler in the other, studied the vehicle with its tinted windows that gave no clue as to who was inside.

  Victoria lowered her window and came into view.

  Orion’s pleasant expression turned into a broad grin. “Good afternoon, Victoria. Last time I saw you hitchhiking, you were in a dump truck.” He stood back to examine the car from a distance. “You’ve risen in the world.”

  A breeze lifted a corner of the map that was on the hood of Orion’s car, and he weighted it down with the ruler.

  The bearded young man said, “I’m heading to the Black Dog for coffee, Orion.” He leaned toward Victoria’s open window. “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Trumbull?”

  “Not I, thank you,” said Victor
ia. “We’ll be here only a few minutes.”

  “Green tea for me,” said Orion, reaching into his pocket for money. “No sugar.”

  After he left, Victoria introduced her chauffeur.

  Primo slipped out of the driver’s seat, went around the front of the car, and offered a hand to Orion.

  “Primo Vulpone, Mr. Nanopoulos.”

  Orion’s eyebrows rose. “Angelo’s son?”

  “Yes, sir.” Primo removed his hat.

  “My condolences. A difficult time for you.”

  “Thank you. I understand you knew my father.”

  “Not well. I’d discussed business matters with him. I’m sure we’d have become well acquainted in time.”

  “He was most impressed with you, Mr. Nanopoulos, your business acumen, and your technical knowledge.”

  “Thank you,” said Orion.

  The breeze fluttered the map, shifting the ruler across the hood of the car. Orion picked up the map. “I understand you’ve engaged Mrs. Trumbull to investigate your father’s death.”

  “My brother and I have, yes, sir. Your suggestion.”

  Orion rolled up the map and tapped the end to straighten it. “Let me know if I can help.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We’re on our way to see Elizabeth,” said Victoria.

  Orion grinned. “If I were riding around in a Bentley, I’d want to show off, too.”

  Victoria raised the tinted window.

  Orion turned to Primo. “A fine vehicle.”

  “Thank you,” said Primo. “I’ve been admiring yours, too. It must be twenty years old and is in superb condition.”

  “I’ll let you drive it sometime,” said Orion.

  “I’d be delighted. And would be pleased to return the favor,” said Primo, settling his hat on his head and getting back into the driver’s seat.

  From Orion’s work site, Primo drove Victoria to the Oak Bluffs Harbor, but Elizabeth was in the harbor launch checking mooring lines and couldn’t leave, so they drove home again, and Victoria dismissed her chauffeur.

  Orion, at least, appreciated her car and driver.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Victoria tried to finish her column, but couldn’t concentrate. Her mind was full of unconnected thoughts. Finally, she decided that news of the town could wait. The murder of Angelo Vulpone couldn’t. For that matter, neither could the murder of Tris Waverley. Nor the attempt on Orion’s life. Were the three—two deaths and a near death—connected in some way?

  She pushed her typewriter aside, reached into the drawer of the telephone table for a lined yellow pad, and started to make a list.

  The first item on her list was, “Why was Angelo killed? Why was he on the Vineyard? He seldom traveled, according to his sons.”

  After that she added Tris Waverley. Strangled. Not like Angelo’s death. Was there a connection?

  Then, why would anyone attempt to kill Orion, and with wasps? What a bizarre weapon. The would-be killer had known that Orion was sensitive to bee stings.

  But, of course, Orion made sure everyone knew so they could treat him promptly in case of a sting.

  The killer must also have known Orion’s habits, where he parked his car and his schedule.

  But Orion’s schedule was erratic at best. Even she was never sure when he’d be home. The killer must have been watching her house and drive. It gave her a strange feeling to think that someone might have been spying on her.

  Orion hadn’t told her much about Finney Solomon, the venture capitalist from New York. He was connected to Angelo Vulpone in some way. How did he figure in this?

  She was sure the pieces were all there, but she couldn’t think how they fit together. Were there missing pieces that would make everything clear?

  The only common element seemed to be Orion. Angelo Vulpone and Orion. Tris Waverley and Orion. Dorothy Roche and Orion. Bees or wasps and Orion.

  She thought for a moment, her pen suspended in midair, then went back to work. The name Dorothy Roche was next on her list. There were two Dorothy Roches, a television actress and a false Dorothy Roche, who lived a phony life on North Water Street.

  If the television actress worked for Uncle Bruce, Angelo’s brother, perhaps Uncle Bruce had set up the false Dorothy Roche in the North Water Street house out of sight of his wife, Aunt Maria Rosa. Uncle Bruce could charge the false Dorothy Roche’s expenses to his business as though the actress had incurred them, since he owned the studio. The setup seemed much too elaborate for a love nest though, and too visible. Why would he have chosen the Vineyard? Victoria made a note along the margin of the yellow pad to ask Primo and Umberto if they’d seen Uncle Bruce on the Island at any time.

  Again, the only connection was Orion.

  While she wrote, a silver Mercedes pulled into her drive and parked under the Norway maple. Her first thought was that Primo had returned with yet another car. She’d commented on the Bentley’s conspicuousness, and perhaps he’d taken her seriously.

  But when the driver’s door of the Mercedes opened, Dorothy Roche stepped out and locked the door behind her with some sort of remote-control device.

  Victoria quickly lifted the tablecloth, put her list underneath, and smoothed the cloth down over it. She watched Dorothy approach and opened the kitchen door.

  “Mrs. Trumbull. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

  “Not at all. Come in.” Victoria stepped aside. This was a visit that deserved a certain formality. She led the way to the parlor through the long dining room. She could suddenly see her house through the eyes of a stranger. A battered upright and out-of-tune piano was at the west end between two windows. Late-afternoon sun sparkled on the small panes through a coating of salt spray blown in from the sea. Against one long wall was her great-grandmother’s horsehair couch, its worn and cracked faux-leather upholstery covered by faux-fur fabric that Elizabeth had found somewhere. Facing her great-grandmother’s two-centuries-old couch was the overstuffed sofa she and Jonathan had bought, their first furniture purchase after they married.

  To Dorothy, whose taste ran to designer decor, this comfortably muddled home must seem jarring, with its furnishings ranging from the seriously old to the armchairs Elizabeth had picked up at the West Tisbury dump.

  She glanced back at Dorothy as she led the way into the parlor.

  “Charming,” Dorothy said, her smile firmly in place.

  Once Dorothy was seated on the elaborately carved parlor sofa, Victoria realized it was late enough for drinks, and she got up again.

  “I’ll be right back with sherry, Dorothy.”

  Dorothy shifted in her seat. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I won’t be a minute. Make yourself comfortable.” As she said that, Victoria realized no one could possibly be comfortable on that stiff couch.

  In the kitchen she started to get out the bottle of Amontillado, then put it away and instead brought out the cooking sherry from the cabinet by the stove. She placed the bottle and two glasses on a tray, and carried it into the parlor, poured two glasses, and handed one to Dorothy.

  “Thank you so much,” said Dorothy. “How sweet of you.”

  Victoria held her glass, not wanting to taste the sherry, and waited to hear what this visit was all about.

  “Interesting decor,” Dorothy said, gazing around the room. “So … so … authentic!”

  Victoria smiled. In the future, she’d have to use the word authentic with respect to this house. It fit, somehow.

  Today, Dorothy wore a beige pantsuit and brown turtleneck shirt that had the effect of making her metallic red hair look less awful. She took a sip of the cooking sherry, cleared her throat, looked at the glass, and set it down. Victoria tried not to smile.

  “Mrs. Trumbull, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here,” she began, clearing her throat again.

  Victoria took a sip of her own sherry. It was, in truth, dreadful. She felt a tinge of guilt. She could easily have served the
Amontillado. “I was about to issue you an invitation,” she said.

  Dorothy shook her head. “You don’t owe me a return invitation, Mrs. Trumbull. I came to ask you a favor.”

  “Oh?” Victoria set her glass down.

  “I don’t know if Orion told you, but I’m now a partner in his company. Angelo Vulpone…”

  Victoria stiffened at the mention of the dead man.

  “… was about to invest a large sum of money in Orion’s and, of course, my company,” she looked up from the sherry glass she’d been staring at, “before he, ah, died.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m concerned about Orion, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s under a great deal of stress, and, well, I don’t know how to say this. I worry about some of his decisions.”

  Victoria edged forward. “What are you talking about?”

  “I know he’s concerned about money and his schedule, and, of course, I don’t know him as well as you do, but I sense he may—how can I say this?—he may be having some sort of mental problem.”

  “Orion? A mental breakdown?” Victoria reached for the sherry bottle. “Would you like a bit more?”

  Dorothy shook her head.

  Victoria was beginning to wish that she had served the Amontillado after all. No one would take a second or third sip of this stuff, let alone enough to loosen one’s tongue. She would like to know what this woman wanted of her, and Dorothy, sober, was too shrewd to slip up.

  Dorothy looked down at her glass.

  Victoria stood again, gathered up the two full glasses, and set them on the tray. “I have some much better sherry. This is awful, isn’t it? Would you prefer Scotch? Or bourbon? I think we do need to talk.”

  Dorothy smiled. “Scotch, please. On the rocks.”

  “Right,” said Victoria, and strode into the kitchen with the tray of un-drunk cooking sherry.

  CHAPTER 24

  Dorothy Roche had shown up at Victoria’s around five in the afternoon. Two hours later, she was still there. Victoria had set the bottle of Dewar’s Scotch Whisky on the coffee table in front of Dorothy, who was now pouring herself a third glass. Victoria had hoped Dorothy might loosen up with a drink or two, but this was better than she had expected. Dorothy was quite garrulous.