The Bee Balm Murders

by Cynthia Riggs

  She went to the door to greet him.

  “Mrs. Trumbull?” He held out his hand.

  “You must be Finney Solomon. Come in. I’ve heard good things about you.”

  “And I of you,” said Finney with a broad toothy grin. “Dorothy tells me you own a Bentley. I suppose you must have it garaged?” He was clean-cut, nice looking, but not handsome, and he wasn’t at all what Victoria had expected.

  Victoria wasn’t sure she should mention Primo’s name. As a friend of Primo’s father, Finney might know him. So she said what was becoming more and more comfortable. “My chauffeur has taken the car on an errand. Please. Come in.”

  “Wonderful cars,” said Finney, wiping his clean shoes on her worn doormat.

  This Finney Solomon oozed confidence and honesty and trustworthiness. Victoria could see why investors might write out million-dollar checks to a project presented by him. She led him into the cookroom, where her work was spread out on the table, an old portable typewriter and a drift of notes penciled in her distinctive scrawl.

  “I write a news column for the Island Enquirer,” Victoria explained, moving the typewriter and her notes aside. “I understand you were Angelo Vulpone’s friend.”

  Finney glanced past Victoria and out the window. “He was my mentor. I’ve known him since I was a boy.”

  “That couldn’t be too long, then.” Victoria smiled.

  “More than a decade,” said Finney.

  Odd how his saying decade seemed to imply a greater length of time than ten years. Victoria said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I simply wanted to meet you,” said Finney. “You have a reputation on the Island for being a mover and shaker.”

  “I know where a few bodies are buried.”

  “I understand you’re with the police force.”

  “I’m a police deputy,” Victoria said, smoothing the tablecloth in front of her.

  “I’m impressed. The police department is fortunate to have the benefit of your knowledge and expertise.”

  As proud as she was of being associated with the West Tisbury Police, this flattery was a bit too blatant. Victoria got to her feet. “You look as though you could use a bite to eat. I believe we have some leftover muffins and cold coffee from breakfast.”

  “Great!” said Finney. “Can I get them?”

  Victoria smiled as this grand financier morphed into a hungry teenager. She was still under the enervating effects of the doxycycline, and told him where to find everything. “You’ll want to heat the coffee in the microwave.”

  “I’ll do it. Can I bring you anything?”

  “More coffee, please. There should be plenty.”

  Plates clattered, a drawer opened and shut, the microwave dinged, and Finney returned with a basket of muffins, plates, and mugs of coffee. He waited for Victoria to serve herself, then dug in as though he hadn’t eaten for days. A very young man, Victoria decided. She smiled at Dorothy’s description of this Mozart of money.

  “Okay if I take another?” Finney asked, his hand hovering over the basket.

  “Help yourself. If they’re not eaten today, they get tossed out to the crows.” Victoria pushed her plate to one side. “Now, tell me why you’ve come to see me, besides the fact that I’m a mover and shaker.”

  Finney finished his muffin before he answered. He brushed crumbs from his hands onto his plate. “That was wonderful, Mrs. Trumbull. Thank you.” He assumed a serious and mature expression. “As you probably know, Angelo planned to invest in Universal Fiber Optics.”

  She nodded.

  “With his death, the company doesn’t have the needed capital.”

  “I understand you propose to raise that money?”

  “Well, we’ve run into a problem.” He leaned his forearms on the table. “One of Orion’s partners—”

  “Dorothy Roche,” Victoria interrupted.

  “She and I feel that Orion is no longer the right person to head the company.” He looked at Victoria with sincerity. “Technically, you couldn’t find a better person. He’s got a nationwide reputation, actually a worldwide reputation, as an engineer.”

  “But?”

  “He’s over his head, Mrs. Trumbull.” Finney held Victoria’s gaze. She was determined not to look away first, and he finally dropped his eyes. “He needs to step aside. We’ll keep him on as a consultant, of course.”

  “And you and Dorothy would be the managers.”

  Finney sat back again, relaxed. “She’ll be chief executive officer, and I’ll be chief financial officer.”

  “I see,” said Victoria. “What do you expect of me?”

  “You have influence over Nanopoulos. We’re sure you can convince him to step aside. Let new blood take over.”

  “Interesting,” said Victoria. “If you have a copy of your resume with you, I’d like to see it.”

  “Certainly.” Finney opened his attaché case, extracted a blue plastic binder, and handed it to her.

  Victoria turned to the first page, a summary of his work experience. Then the second and third. There were fifteen pages in all. After she’d studied them, she glanced up at Finney, who was looking both eager and expectant.

  “I don’t know a great deal about finances,” she said. “Tell me what you did in this position,” she pointed to an entry on one page, “‘assistant to financial officer of Blake and Brown.’ What did the company do?”

  Finney cleared his throat. “They manufactured paper and plastic products.”

  “Such as?”

  “Decals, that sort of thing.”

  “Bumper stickers?”

  “Well, yes. That, too.”

  “Is Blake and Brown a printing company?”

  “That was one of their functions,” said Finney.

  “How large a printing firm is it? How many employees do they have?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly.” Finney squirmed slightly.

  “As many as twenty employees?”

  “Probably not that many.”

  “As many as five?” asked Victoria.

  “It’s hard to say,” said Finney.

  Victoria turned a page. “Tell me about Osborne, Steere, Williams, and Devons. I’ve never heard of the company, but then, I’m not really knowledgeable about finances. It sounds like a law firm.”

  “It is,” said Finney, enthusiastic again. “You’re absolutely right.”

  “Your resume says you were assistant to the partners. What was it that you did for the firm?”

  “Whatever it was the partners needed. Research, paperwork, that sort of thing. Courier.”

  “You worked as a messenger?”

  “Well, I did that, too.” Finney blotted his face with his napkin.

  Victoria went through one job after another that Finney had listed. She put the resume aside. “Tell me, Finney. Have you done much fund-raising?”

  “Certainly,” he said, sounding indignant.

  “What are some of the organizations?”

  “I can’t recall all of them. They’re in my resume.”

  Victoria flipped through the resume. “I noticed a Boy Scout Troop in Hoboken. Yours?”

  He nodded.

  Victoria changed the subject. “How long have you known Dorothy Roche?”

  “I met her when I came to talk to Orion.”

  “And how did you first meet Angelo Vulpone?”

  Finney took a sip of his by-now cold coffee. “My father and Angelo were both in the construction business. My dad took me to see him, and, well, the rest is history.”

  “He must have been a wonderful man.”

  Finney nodded. “A great teacher.”

  “Had he talked to you about the fiber-optics project?”

  “He planned to invest in it heavily.”

  “So you said.” Victoria pushed her own coffee mug aside. “I suppose you know Angelo’s family well.”

  “Not
well. He was a private guy.”

  “Did you know Angelo’s brother, Basilio?”

  “I heard mention of a brother.”

  “He owns a television studio called Vulpone’s Vampire Venture. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Finney shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t know that’s what Angelo’s brother does.”

  Victoria looked at her watch. “Finney, I’m afraid my time’s up. I have to finish my column for the paper.”

  “I hope you’ll talk to Orion?” said Finney.

  “Yes, indeed I will,” said Victoria. “Thank you for coming by.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Finney thought about his meeting with Victoria on his way to Edgartown. He felt as if he’d lost a Ping-Pong match, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

  Mrs. Trumbull didn’t act like someone with money. But according to Dorothy, rich Island eccentrics liked to pretend they were ordinary folks.

  How nice it would be to pretend you were poor when you had a chauffeur-driven Bentley at your disposal.

  Mrs. Trumbull was interested in his resume and his answers to her probing questions. She’d gone over every item, and he felt he’d answered in a straightforward way. She assured him she would talk to Orion.

  Since he wasn’t having success with venture capital firms, perhaps he could get her to invest three or four million. He shuddered at the thought that Dorothy expected him to invest. At the moment, twenty dollars would stretch his budget. As he passed the airport, he thought about the best way to approach Mrs. Trumbull.

  He shrugged to loosen the tightness in his shoulders. In a few minutes, he’d be talking to Dorothy, and he needed to be in control. She’d been distant this morning. He reached into his jacket pocket for his tin of mints and popped two into his mouth.

  By the time he reached the outskirts of Edgartown, the mints were half-dissolved and he’d convinced himself the meeting with Victoria Trumbull had gone well.

  Since Orion hadn’t yet signed the contract, the next step was to suggest that Dorothy invest. Two or three million from her along with three or four from Mrs. Trumbull should loosen the purse strings of other investors. Nothing like an infusion of seed money.

  He chewed up the remaining slivers of mints before he turned onto North Water Street so he wouldn’t have to think about them when he met with Dorothy, and he brushed any possible crumbs of Victoria Trumbull’s muffins from the lapels of his navy blazer.

  Now he was ready to act his financier part.

  He turned onto North Water Street and was almost abreast of Dorothy’s house when he looked over to his left.

  Orion’s car was parked in Dorothy’s space.

  * * *

  Why was Orion here? Finney parked next to his Chevrolet and followed Courtney to the library. Dorothy and Orion were sitting by the fireplace. She didn’t look any better than she had earlier. Perhaps worse.

  Orion stood and they shook hands. Orion sat again, leaned back comfortably, and crossed his ankle over his knee. His smile made Finney uneasy.

  “Have a seat,” said Orion, gesturing to a third chair, a straight-backed, rush-seated antique.

  Finney glanced at Dorothy.

  Dorothy waved vaguely at the chair and he sat.

  “I’ve been telling Dorothy about an opportunity for the company,” Orion said. “A way to attract investors, draw attention to our project.” He smiled and Finney shivered.

  Dorothy’s expression didn’t tell him anything. She sat primly in her chair, surrounded by bright red chintz roses.

  Orion continued pleasantly. “I’m sure Finney’s not heard about the annual auction. Would you like to tell him about it, Dorothy?” He turned that smile in her direction.

  Dorothy shook her head.

  Orion turned to Finney. “The auction is held every summer to benefit the Outstretched Palm Fund.” He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair.

  “Outstretched Palm?” asked Finney, bewildered. He looked at Dorothy, whose expression was not helpful.

  “Forbes’s wealthiest, film celebrities, socialites, movers and shakers,” at this Orion smiled again at Finney, “money, power, influence, in a congenial setting. People you already know, Finney.”

  “What about them?” Finney asked, still bewildered.

  “They attend the auction,” said Orion. “For Island charities, of course. The rich and famous come to be seen, to bid,” he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

  “To bid?” asked Finney.

  “A movie star may contribute a dinner with the star cooking and serving. A TV anchor may offer a luncheon cruise on his yacht. That sort of thing.” Orion turned to Dorothy. “Tell Finney what you’re offering.”

  Dorothy stared at the never-to-be-burned birch logs.

  Orion said, “She’s offered the winning bidder a ride on the Ditch Witch drill. She’ll drive it.”

  “Oh?” said Finney, looking from one to the other.

  “The drilling unit can travel at speeds up to two miles an hour,” Orion said to Finney. “Right, Dorothy?”

  Dorothy was now staring down at her hands, which were crushing the scented hankie in her lap.

  “Great publicity,” said Orion with enthusiasm. “The Outstretched Palm coordinators want Dorothy to drive the winner from the Yacht Club to her house on North Water Street and serve luncheon for twenty-five of the high bidders’ friends. This will put Universal Fiber Optics on the map. And you, Finney”—he turned to him—“will have an opportunity to meet even more movers and shakers.”

  “We need to keep a low profile,” murmured Dorothy.

  “Nonsense. This is a great contribution. We’ve already ordered a pink hard hat for you. And a pink safety vest.”

  Finney, doubtful at first, was warming to the idea. This would lure investors. “He’s got something. Let’s make it luncheon for fifty. Drive up the bids. Only someone with money will bid, and that someone will have a dozen friends dying to invest in UFO.”

  “But…” Dorothy looked her age.

  Finney stood. “That’s brilliant!” Demonstrating the drill to investors, Mrs. Trumbull’s three or four million, Dorothy’s two or three million—well, it was simply brilliant. “What do we need to do to get this going?”

  “I’ve already spoken to the organizers. Some of the biggest names on the Island. Dorothy’s already signed up.” Orion smiled again. “I knew she’d be thrilled. I’ll call tomorrow to let them know the luncheon is for fifty, not twenty-five. Splendid, Finney.”

  * * *

  Shortly after Finney left for Edgartown in the Mercedes, Primo arrived at Victoria’s in the Bentley.

  “Good news, Mrs. Trumbull.” He stood at the kitchen door, grinning. “Umberto has hired an assistant.”

  Victoria dropped onto a kitchen chair. She rested her head on her hand. “Primo…”

  “You’ll love her, Mrs. Trumbull. We’ve booked her a room at the Harbor View.”

  “She’s not from here?”

  “We thought it unwise to hire an Islander. Everyone seems to be related, and everyone seems to know everything before it happens.”

  “But…” She sighed, defeated. “Who is this person?”

  “You wanted to know about a television actress?”

  Victoria was aghast. “You haven’t hired the true Dorothy Roche have you?”

  “No, no. Better than that. We know your interest in the true and false Dorothy Roches is to be confidential.”

  “You’d better tell me whom you’ve hired.”

  “Her younger sister, Virginia!” said Primo with a triumphant smile.

  “How old is Virginia?”

  “Eighteen. Two years younger than Dorothy.”

  “Virginia Roche?”

  “Virginia Carroll. The true Dorothy’s name is Dorothy Carroll. Dorothy Roche is her stage name.”

  Victoria was having trouble concentrating. One more day of doxycycline. Presumably, the Lyme disease would be eradicated from he
r system along with the dismal effects of the doxycycline. She could go out in the sun again and concentrate. She could stand up to her two young men. Then she thought about the Bentley. Independence has its price.

  “When does Umberto return?” she asked.

  “He’s here on the Island, settling Ginny—Virginia, that is—into her quarters.”

  Victoria sighed. “Does Virginia play Scrabble?”

  Primo was still standing at the door. “I’ll ask.” He took out his notebook and pen.

  “Don’t you want to come in and sit down?”

  “I can’t stay, Mrs. Trumbull. Besides, there’s a nice breeze coming through here.”

  “Did your father ever mention a Finney Solomon?”

  Primo shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

  “Might you have seen him at your father’s office? He’s tall, light hair, hazel eyes. About your age.”

  “Father never mentioned a Finney Solomon.”

  “Finney claims Angelo Vulpone was his mentor and taught him what he knows about finance.”

  Primo looked astonished. “Father mentored some kid?”

  “That’s what Finney claims.”

  Primo shook his head vigorously. “My father trained Umberto and me to take over his business. He was very close-mouthed. He would never have discussed his business outside our family. Never.”

  “Would he have given a young man advice on finance?”

  “Never. My father wouldn’t tell anyone anything that might in the future put him in competition with us.”

  “According to Finney, your father told him Orion’s company was a gold mine.”

  Primo looked baffled. “Who is this character?”

  “He claims he’s got a degree from Hudson College.”

  “That’s a community college in Jersey City. He’s got a two-year associate of arts degree?”

  “It looks that way,” said Victoria. “Finney’s held a number of clerical jobs that he’s inflated on his resume to sound like positions of great responsibility.”

  “It’s true my father was planning to invest in Universal Fiber Optics. I heard him call it a gold mine. But how did this Finney latch onto that?”