“That’s what Mr. Meyer said. I told him the police don’t seem to have done anything about finding my brother’s killer, and he suggested that I hire you.”
“I can assure you, the police are working on the case. They’re terribly handicapped by lack of clues.”
“I’ve saved up quite a bit of money, Mrs. Trumbull. I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
“I can’t accept,” said Victoria. “I’m sorry. Really, it’s not a task I’m prepared to take on.”
“I’m on the Island now, can I at least come and talk to you?”
Victoria sighed. How long would it take for the doxycycline to wash out of her system? She took a deep breath. “Where are you?”
“Vineyard Haven, and I’m about to get on the bus to West Tisbury.”
“All right,” said Victoria. “I can offer you tea and sympathy, but I can’t hunt down your brother’s killer.”
* * *
Victoria had put away the breakfast dishes when Marylou arrived. She was a thin woman in her forties with an exhausted look about her. Even her hair, a nondescript brown, looked exhausted. She was wearing dark gray slacks and a light gray jacket over a pale yellow blouse. The jacket hung loosely on her, as though she’d recently lost weight. The yellow and gray combination seemed to drain out of her face whatever color she’d had to begin with.
“Come in,” said Victoria.
Marylou settled on the captain’s chair and leaned forward, her elbows resting on her thighs.
“I know you’re busy, Mrs. Trumbull. I’ve checked up on you and I know your reputation.”
Victoria started to speak, but Marylou held up a hand.
“At least hear me out, Mrs. Trumbull. I’m desperate.”
Victoria could see that she was. She sat down to hear what Marylou had to say.
“Tris was involved in something underhanded. I don’t know what.”
“I understood that he was hired to do surveillance on the man next door.”
“Yes, I knew that. He and I discussed the job at length before he took it. We’re partners, you know. At least, we were. We’re really just breaking into the business, Mrs. Trumbull. We have a lot to learn.” Marylou reached into the large purse she’d set on the floor beside her and brought out a sheaf of papers. “There was something fishy about this whole setup. He sent me checks to deposit, but they weren’t from the woman who hired him. Tris didn’t tell me much about what he was doing here.”
“What might he have been involved in?” asked Victoria.
Marylou reached into her pocket for a tissue and blew her nose. “Sorry, I just can’t get over his death.”
“Why do you think he was involved in anything other than surveillance?” Victoria asked.
“After Tris came here, he got very secretive. That wasn’t like him. And I started getting hang-up calls at the store. A lot of them.”
“Do you have any idea as to what was bothering him?”
“None at all.”
“Might he have been involved in drug dealing? Unfortunately, that’s fairly common on the Island.”
“He’s always been squeaky clean, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“Things change,” said Victoria. “Was he having any financial problems? Or a drinking or gambling problem? Was he involved with a woman?”
Marylou shook her head at each question. “None of those. I’d know, at least about gambling and drinking.”
“You really must talk to the police,” said Victoria. “I can’t trace phone calls or follow paper trails, and I don’t know anything about electronics or surveillance.”
“But you understand people,” insisted Marylou. “That’s what this is all about, I’m sure. Cherchez les people.”
Marylou held out the papers she’d taken from her purse. “I made copies of all the checks Tris sent. There’s only one from Dorothy Roche, the one she gave him as a retainer. The rest are cashier’s checks.”
Victoria took the papers and looked them over. “I really don’t know what to tell you, Marylou.”
Marylou was silent while Victoria paged through the photocopies. “Fifty thousand dollars,” Victoria said.
“Yes,” said Marylou. “The work Tris contracted to do would have been less than a quarter of that.”
Victoria handed the papers back to Marylou.
“Please keep them, Mrs. Trumbull. Those are for you.” Marylou reached into her purse. “I want to give you a retainer, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“I can’t accept it,” said Victoria. “I’m working on another case that may be related to the death of your brother. If so, I’ll give you any information I can.”
Marylou reached into her purse. “Here’s my card.”
“I’m afraid you’ve made a trip to the Island in vain.”
Marylou shook her head. “I hope you’ll at least think about this. What was my brother involved in? He was a gentle guy. Why would anyone kill him?” She blotted her eyes with her tissue, looked at her watch, and stood up. “I’ve got to catch the bus back to the ferry.”
* * *
Victoria finished the first draft of a sonnet about bees when the red Ferrari pulled up and Umberto sprang out of the driver’s seat. The young woman passenger had already untangled herself from the low seat, and stood next to the car. Victoria immediately assumed this was Virginia Carroll. She was tall, but her head still only came up to Umberto’s chin. Her silky black hair drifted to her shoulders and shone with blue highlights.
Victoria went to the door and greeted them. “Good afternoon, Umberto. And you must be Virginia.”
“Yes, ma’am. They call me Ginny.”
“Come in, both of you.”
Ginny and Umberto followed Victoria into the cookroom and they sat at the table.
“I’m not used to having help,” said Victoria. “I’m not quite sure what I need you to do.”
“Ginny is a genius with computers,” said Umberto.
“Do you have a computer with you?” asked Victoria.
“Yes, ma’am. Umberto said that’s what you need.” She reached into her backpack, drew out a slim black object the size of a breadboard, and powered it up to a blast of music. “When Umberto asked me to work for you I was thrilled. I’ve loved your poetry since I was a kid.”
“Do you write poetry yourself?”
“My school newspaper published one of my poems.” Ginny blushed suddenly. “I guess that’s not such a big deal.”
“Yes, it is. It’s good to see your work in print,” said Victoria. “Perhaps you’ll let me read it sometime.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have Wi-Fi, by any chance, would you, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“I do,” said Victoria. “My friend Geoffrey Parkhurst installed it for me.” She opened the drawer in the table under the telephone and found a scrap of paper with a series of letters and numbers, which she gave to Ginny.
Ginny entered the long code, gave a satisfied sigh, and looked up. “Works great.”
“A visitor this morning brought me copies of checks I’d like to know more about. Can you track them down on your computer?” She gave Ginny the papers Marylou Waverley had left with her. “I’d like any information you can find about the checks. Anything at all about his finances.”
Ginny looked doubtful. “It’s not exactly easy to find financial information.” She lifted her hands from the keyboard and gazed out of the window. “Do you have a guess as to who might have given this guy the money?”
“Try Basilio or Bruce Vulpone,” said Victoria.
“My uncle,” said Umberto. “Your sister works for him.”
“I’ll need his…” Ginny didn’t finish, but grinned suddenly and typed vigorously.
“Don’t do anything illegal,” said Victoria, concerned.
“They’ll never catch me,” said Ginny without looking up from the keyboard.
Victoria turned to Umberto. “I’m sure Tris Waverley’s death is connected to your father’s.”
Umberto nodded.
A catbird called from the other side of the lilac trees. Another answered.
“Can you find out if Tris Waverley was ever in any kind of trouble, Ginny?”
“No problem,” said Ginny without stopping. “I’ll work on Mr. Vulpone first.”
“His sister says he wasn’t, but something about Tris Waverley doesn’t seem right.”
Ginny looked up briefly. “This financial stuff may take a while, Mrs. Trumbull.”
Umberto watched Ginny with a rapt expression.
“I have to go out to the garden,” said Victoria.
* * *
The fading bee balm blossoms still trembled with bees. Victoria went past and into the vegetable garden, enclosed by a ten-foot-high fence to keep deer out.
She picked Swiss chard and, kneeling down using the rake handle for support, unearthed several small potatoes. She sighed happily, eased herself up, and headed back to the house, her harvest held in the front of her shirt. She dropped her supper makings into the sink, brushed the dirt from the front of her shirt, and scrubbed her hands.
Umberto had moved his chair closer to Ginny’s.
“This is taking longer than I thought, Mrs. Trumbull,” Ginny said. “I have to wait until Mr. Vulpone does some banking transaction. Then, who knows?”
CHAPTER 29
While Victoria was harvesting her supper, Maria Rosa, thirty pounds lighter and wearing the emerald necklace that matched her eyes, arrived unexpectedly at the office of Sharon Knowles, private investigator.
She knocked and George, the personal assistant, greeted her. “May I help you?” he asked, then did a double take. “I didn’t recognize you, Mrs. Vulpone.” He stood aside. “Wow! Please come in.”
“Thank you. Is Sharon available?”
“For you, of course.” He rapped on the door to Sharon’s office and opened it. She was on the phone and mouthed, “Right with you.”
George shut the door again. “Have a seat, Mrs. Vulpone. I hope you don’t mind my saying, you look great.”
“Thank you,” said Maria Rosa, touching her necklace.
“May I get you coffee? Or tea?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
Sharon, too, did a double take when she came out of her office a few minutes later.
They sat at the conference table again.
“Whatever you’re doing agrees with you,” Sharon said. She indicated the necklace that matched Maria Rosa’s eyes. “Is that from Mr. Vulpone?”
“In a way.” Maria Rosa smiled. “I need some information, Sharon. I tried to locate Nora Rochester myself, but couldn’t. Can you find her?”
“We’ll try. I have some information on her already.”
“Call me at home, anytime during the day.”
Sharon scribbled the number on a yellow pad. “Do you need anything more than simply locating her?”
“I don’t think so,” said Maria Rosa.
Sharon leaned back in her chair and looked closely at Maria Rosa. “Don’t do anything rash, Mrs. Vulpone.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” said Maria Rosa, rising.
Sharon, too, got up. “You really should keep that in a bank vault. It must be worth a fortune.”
“It’s meant to be worn,” said Maria Rosa, stroking the emerald necklace.
* * *
Victoria won the first move at their Scrabble game the next evening. She laid down AFFABLE, using all seven of her tiles for eighty points. Five turns later Ginny attached FLAMINGO to one of the Fs in AFFABLE, using all seven of her tiles for seventy points. The score was close, within twenty points. Victoria leaned over the board, studying it. Then, smiling broadly, she laid down a Q on the triple word space at the bottom left-hand corner of the board, then UIX. She incorporated the last O of FLAMINGO into the word she was building and finished with TIC, the C landing on a second triple word score giving Victoria 254 points for QUIXOTIC.
“Wow!” said Ginny. “Sweet!”
“We don’t often get a chance to use of all seven tiles in a move,” said Victoria. “Yet we’ve done just that three times, and the game is young.”
“And the Q and the X. Wow!”
By the time Orion came home, they were down to the last few tiles in the purple velvet Crown Royal sack. He peered at the board, then at the score, which by now totaled well over seven hundred. Victoria was ahead.
“I’ve got news, but it can wait until you finish the game,” Orion said. “Shall I get drinks for all?”
“Cranberry juice with rum for me,” said Victoria.
“Just plain juice for me, thanks,” said Ginny.
By the time Orion returned with drinks, Victoria had won by fifty points, and the two were congratulating each other on a splendid first game.
Victoria eased herself out of her chair.
“Don’t get up, Victoria,” said Orion.
“It’s Friday night. I need to put my beans to soak.”
“Ah,” said Orion. “Saturday night baked beans.”
When Victoria returned to the parlor, Ginny had put away the board, and Orion had folded up the card table. Victoria sat in her wing chair, Ginny perched on the stiff couch, and Orion eased himself onto the rocker.
Victoria noticed his caution. “Is your back still troubling you?”
“I’m simply being cautious. I like this chair.”
“I hope your news is good.”
“News, at any rate.” He leaned forward. “I’ve set up a new company, Fiber United.”
“What about UFO?” asked Victoria.
“Dorothy Roche will become president and Finney Solomon, chief financial officer. I’ll remain as vice president of operations.”
“You’re giving up your position as president of your own company? The company you founded? That’s not right.”
“That doesn’t sound fair to me, either,” said Ginny. “Umberto told me what a great project you have.” She blushed suddenly.
“Casper and I switched the project itself legally to Fiber United, the new company.”
“What happens to the Ditch Witch machine?” Victoria asked.
“Since Dorothy owns the title, the new company will lease it from her, provided the terms are favorable. The old company, Universal Fiber Optics, will be responsible for payments on the drill.”
“Wow,” said Ginny.
“What’s left of the old company?” Victoria asked.
“The name, the payments on the Ditch Witch drill, and whatever remains of the money Casper and I invested.”
“Then you’ll lose your investment?”
“We won’t lose it unless Dorothy and Finney botch the job. The town contracts still held by Universal Fiber Optics should keep them solvent. I’m still vice president, of course, so I’ll have some say.” Orion grinned suddenly.
Ginny sat forward on the couch. “Umberto told me that Ms. Roche is donating a luncheon for fifty people to the Outstretched Palm auction. That’s good of her.”
“She also intends to drive the Ditch Witch drilling unit from the Yacht Club to her place on North Water Street.”
“Wow!” said Ginny. “That will draw a huge crowd.”
“I’m sure it will,” said Orion.
CHAPTER 30
On Saturday morning, Victoria boiled the dried navy beans that had soaked all night and put them in the aged bean pot with an onion, salt pork, and molasses and set the bean pot in the oven on low heat.
After that, she went out to the garden to cut a bouquet of black-eyed Susans. While she was snipping carefully, avoiding the bees that were now hovering around the bright yellow flowers, Sean pulled off New Lane in his red pickup truck and parked in the west pasture. He beckoned to someone in the passenger seat. A boy.
The boy scrambled out of the truck and came slowly toward Victoria, his head down, his feet, clad in unlaced, red high-top sneakers, dragging. He was eight or nine years old, and Victoria recognized him as one of the Whitfield boys who
lived down Tiah’s Cove Road.
She waited to see what this was all about.
“Orion around?” Sean asked.
The boy jammed his hands in his pockets. He was a skinny freckle-faced kid with sandy-red hair. His jeans were worn through at the knees and Victoria noticed a scab on his right knee.
She set her bouquet on the nearby picnic table. “I believe Orion’s in the kitchen,” she said. “Would you like me to get him?”
“We’ll talk to him there. C’mon, Sandy. March.” Sean started toward the house with Sandy tagging reluctantly behind. Before he’d gone more than a few paces, Sean turned to Victoria. “You, too, Mrs. T. You need to hear what Sandy has to say.”
Victoria looked at the boy. His face, still aimed at his feet, was hidden by his mop of tangled hair. She seemed to recall that he was the youngest of four or five children, all boys. She gathered up her bouquet, pulled off a few wilted leaves, and dropped them on the ground.
Sandy was lagging farther and farther behind. Sean reached out a long arm, grabbed his T-shirt, and pushed the boy ahead of him at a pace faster than Sandy seemed to want. The boy said nothing.
The three marched from the flower border, where Victoria had been cutting the black-eyed Susans, past the great wisteria vine, its trunk the size of a man’s thigh. The three crossed the driveway, badly rutted from spring rains. Victoria reminded herself to ask David Merry to smooth out the drive with his Bobcat. They marched past the crab apple tree, across the lawn, and up the stone steps that led to the entry.
No one had said a word. Victoria wondered what on earth this boy, this child, could have done to provoke the usually impassive beekeeper.
Orion was heating water for his tea when Victoria, Sean, and the boy entered the kitchen. He looked up from the teakettle with his usual pleasant expression. “Morning, Sean. What’s up?”
“Sandy, here, has something to tell you.”
Victoria said, “Shall we go into the cookroom?”
“Let me fix my tea,” said Orion. “Anyone else?”
“I don’t think so,” said Sean. He led the way down the step into the cookroom and, still holding the back of Sandy’s shirt, stood behind one of the caned chairs. To Sandy, he said, “You stand there, kid, until Mrs. Trumbull is seated.”
The Bee Balm Murders Page 18