Victoria parked herself in her chair with her back to the window, Orion sat to her left, and Sean released his hold on Sandy’s shirt and pushed him roughly into the seat to Orion’s left.
Orion excelled at looking expressionless when he chose. He glanced now from Sandy to Sean, and back at Sandy. He stroked his mustache. He picked up his mug and sipped his tea.
“Okay, kid. Talk,” said Sean.
Victoria had only seen Sean in his role as beekeeper, steady, taciturn, professional. She had never imagined him as this angry, stone-faced man. His high cheekbones shone. His eyes glittered. His mouth was a thin, straight slash above a rock-hard cleft chin.
Sandy’s head hung down. His hands were in his lap. He was small for his age, and his sneakered feet didn’t quite reach the floor. When he moved his feet, Victoria heard the plastic tips of his shoelaces tick on the pine boards.
A crow called three notes and a second crow, some distance away, called three notes in return. Victoria was aware of her own heartbeat, of the sound of Sean’s breathing, of the light gasp of Sandy’s breath.
Silence.
“Talk, kid. You have some explaining to do to Mr. Nanopoulos.”
Sandy looked up, his eyes full of tears he clearly was trying not to shed. “I … I … I…” He stopped.
“Are you about to tell me about something you did that involves me?” Orion asked softly.
The boy nodded and looked down again.
“Why don’t you tell me what it was?”
“I…”
Silence.
“Was it something you decided to do on your own?”
The boy shook his head.
“Was it something someone suggested you do, maybe a practical joke?”
The boy nodded.
“Was it recently?”
At this, a tear, then another, and another slithered down the boy’s cheeks, and he lifted the front of his grimy T-shirt and wiped his face.
“Why don’t you tell me what you did,” said Orion. “Did it have to do with yellow jackets?”
The boy gazed at Orion, his expression bleak.
“You put that yellow jacket nest in my car, right?”
The boy nodded.
Victoria turned her chair slightly and gazed out of the window so she wouldn’t have to see either the boy’s or Orion’s pain.
“Now that we know what we’re talking about, you can explain to me how it happened. Start at the beginning. Who thought it would be fun to put that nest in my car?”
Sandy swallowed hard, then swallowed again. “A man.”
“Was it a man you know?”
“No.”
“No, sir,” snapped Sean.
“No, sir,” the boy repeated.
“Where did you meet this man?”
“Up to Alley’s. He bought us Klondike bars.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
The boy shook his head. He glanced at Sean. “No, sir.”
“Then what happened?”
“He left. We sat on Alley’s porch and watched the tourists.”
“Was this in the afternoon?”
“Yes.” Sandy glanced at Sean, who sat, arms folded, like a chainsawed wood figure. “Yes, sir.”
“When did you see the man again?”
“Next day. I went to Alley’s to pick up the mail and he was sitting on the porch.”
“And?”
“He talked to me some. Asked me what my name was. Where I lived. Like that.”
Orion asked quietly, “Anything else?”
Sandy shuffled his feet. “He asked what I liked to do. I told him I want to be an entomologist when I grow up.”
“You like insects?”
“Yes, sir. I have an ant farm. I collect insects and have them all labeled. My mom won’t let me kill anything, so I just have ones I find around, like under the porch light in the morning, you know?”
Orion nodded. “I know.”
“I have a beehive, too. Like, that’s how I know Mr. Sean, here. He…” Sandy glanced at Sean, then began again. “Mr. Sean gave it to me. He was teaching me about bees.”
Sean, arms folded, looked away from the boy.
“So you know how to collect a yellow jacket nest.”
The boy’s enthusiasm faded. “Yes, sir. It was on the side of the barn, up near the eaves.”
“What did this man look like?”
The boy shrugged. “He was just a man.”
“Fat? Skinny? Tall? Short?”
“He wasn’t fat.”
“Young? Old?”
“Not old.”
“C’mon, kid.” Sean turned to the boy. “Speak up.”
“He was just a man,” said Sandy to Sean.
“Did the man pay you to put the nest in my car?”
“No, sir. He said you was, were, I mean, a friend of his and he said he wanted to play a joke on you, and you’d think it was funny, and he gave me a sheet of postage stamps. Thirty-three-cent postage stamps with beetles and katydids and spiders and ants and like that. I don’t want to use the stamps because they’ve got descriptions on the back, you know?”
Orion stroked his mustache. “You know, don’t you, what happened when I opened my car door?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy looked down again. “I almost killed you.”
“What do you think I should do about this?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy, his eyes still averted.
“You know you’ve got to take your punishment?”
“Yes, sir.” Sandy looked up briefly. “I’m awful sorry, sir. I didn’t think they’d sting you like that.”
Sean grunted.
Victoria, still gazing out the window, saw a cardinal and a blue jay picking up seeds that had fallen on the grass from the bird feeder. Bright red and lavender blue.
Orion said, “What do you think would be a fitting punishment?”
“Taking away my insects and my ant farm and my beehive.” The boy was staring at his hands, which were folded in his lap. “Sir,” he added.
“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” said Orion. “Any other ideas?”
“Take my allowance for the rest of my life.”
“No, that wouldn’t begin to do.” Orion turned to Sean. “Do you need help in cleaning out the hives and scrubbing floors in your bottling room?”
Sean turned his head toward the boy, so stiffly it seemed to squeak. “Yeah.”
Victoria turned back to the two men and the boy. No one paid any attention to her.
Orion asked, “Is Sandy responsible enough to work for you, Sean?”
A long silence. Sandy glanced from Orion to Sean, then back down to his hands.
“I’ve got one hell of a lot of dirty work I need done, real dirty work that a kid can’t mess up.”
Orion turned to Sandy. “What about that? Cleaning hives, cleaning glassware, sweeping and mopping floors? An apprentice. Whatever work Sean needs done?”
“Yes, sir,” said Sandy. “I can do that. I can.”
Orion addressed Sean. “Would two mornings a week for the next year be any help to you?”
Sean, arms still folded, said nothing.
Orion turned back to Sandy. “Look at me.”
Sandy looked up.
“That’s only part of the punishment,” said Orion.
Sandy nodded.
“You’re to write a report on the differences among bees, hornets, and wasps. Include what happens to someone who’s allergic to insects and gets stung and how you treat them. The report’s to be at least five hundred words, it’s to be in your own writing—don’t copy someone else’s words—and I want it by next Sunday. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go to the library and look up books on insects. You’re not to use your computer.”
“I don’t have a computer,” said the boy.
“List the library books you look at. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do your parents know about the practical joke?”
Sean unfolded his arms and dropped his hands to his lap. “I told them,” he said. “His old man whipped him.”
Victoria got up from the table. “I believe we can all use a glass of lemonade.”
CHAPTER 31
Maria Rosa answered the kitchen phone. “Yes?”
“Sharon Knowles, Mrs. Vulpone. I have information.”
“Yes, please.”
“Nora Rochester, the woman your husband—”
“Yes, yes, I know.” She moved a chair closer to the phone and sat down.
“Nora Rochester is on Martha’s Vineyard and is going by the name ‘Dorothy Roche.’”
“Dorothy Roche? She’s just a girl, an actress who works for my husband.”
“Your husband’s friend is using her name then.”
Maria Rosa made a clucking sound with her tongue. “So my husband set that fake Dorothy Roche up in a love nest?”
“It looks that way.”
“Where?” Maria Rosa reached for a scratch pad and pen.
“It’s an island off the coast of…”
“Yes, yes. I know all about Martha’s Vineyard. Where is this love nest?”
“I’m not sure Martha’s Vineyard houses have numbers. She’s staying in a place in Edgartown, North Water Street.”
“That’s a high-price neighborhood.”
“The house is midway between Main Street and the Harbor View Hotel.” Sharon gave her a few details about the fake Dorothy Roche including the fact that Dorothy was donating an item to the Outstretched Palm auction that was already creating quite a buzz on the Island.
“What’s this auction for?”
“To raise money for Island charities. Celebrities donate items and wealthy people bid on them.”
“She’s a celebrity?” Maria Rosa sketched a row of daggers on her scratch pad.
“She must think she is. She’s driving a Ditch Witch drill rig from the Yacht Club to her place.”
Maria Rosa laughed. “‘Ditch Witch’? What’s a Ditch Witch drill rig?” She laughed again and added drops of blood to the points of the daggers.
“It’s a drilling machine she owns. The company she’s with uses it to install some kind of special cable.”
“Her cleaning company owns a drilling machine?”
“No, this company is installing a fiber-optic cable on the Island.”
“Ah,” said Maria Rosa. “I think I’m beginning to understand something. Go on, you were saying?”
“The high bidder gets to ride on the Ditch Witch rig and also wins luncheon for fifty friends.”
“Fifty people! Who’s paying for this?” She drew a line under the drops to represent a pool of blood. “Never mind,” she said quickly. “I think I know. When’s this auction?”
“A week from tomorrow.”
“Thank you very much,” said Maria Rosa, and hung up. She tore off the top sheet of the scratch pad, crumpled it up, and hurled it into the kitchen trash along with the orange peels and coffee grounds.
* * *
After Sean left with Sandy tagging after him, Victoria cleared away the lemonade glasses. Orion stashed them in the dishwasher, then he and Victoria sat down again.
“Orion,” said Victoria, “you handled that well.”
“Poor kid,” said Orion.
“Sandy answered one question, but that leaves us with a few others. Who was the man who convinced him to play that trick on you?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Who would want to harm you? That makes no sense whatsoever.” Victoria watched a bright red cardinal forage for seeds on the ground under the feeder. “It can’t be someone protesting the fiber-optic cable. For the first time in history, it’s a project no one opposes.”
“I don’t know, Victoria. I just don’t know.”
* * *
Dorothy paced back and forth in her North Water Street house, waiting for Bruce to call. Cell phone reception here was unreliable, and she didn’t dare leave the house.
The phone rang.
“Hello?” Dorothy answered.
“What in goddamn hell do you think you’re doing?”
Surely he hadn’t heard this quickly about the auction item. “Bruce, darling…” she began.
“Don’t you goddamn ‘darling’ me, bitch.”
“What’s the matter, Bruce?”
“You know goddamned well what. I’m not paying for some luncheon for fifty people. Are you out of your mind?”
“I can explain,” said Dorothy, thinking fast.
“You can explain it to me, all right. Pick me up at the airport in a half-hour.”
Dorothy heard the unmistakable whine of an airplane engine before Bruce disconnected. She slammed down the phone and checked her watch. The plane was due to land at three-thirty. She’d have to leave for the airport in ten minutes. She’d get Courtney to fix something special for supper, lobster salad and that white Burgundy.
How could Orion have been so stupid? Everyone on the Island seemed to know about that auction item. How, she had no idea. What was she going to tell Bruce?
And when was Finney going to come up with the money? Bruce and Finney knew nothing about each other. Immediate action was critical now that Bruce was nosing around.
* * *
Finney felt a resurgence of confidence. People who would bid at the Outstretched Palm auction a week from tomorrow were probably on Island already, and he intended to shake hands with everyone he could.
First, he’d contact Victoria Trumbull, give her the opportunity to invest her millions. That would shame Dorothy into putting in a couple million of her own. After that, he’d personally shake hands with every one of the wealthy auction goers.
In his wallet he had the new credit card but not much cash. Even with considerably cheaper accommodations, his budget was stretched.
The room he was renting, within walking distance of Victoria Trumbull’s, was clean and comfortable. He looked out the window at a tailless cat making its way through the underbrush, stalking something.
The wealthy seldom quibbled over big expenditures, he told himself. It was the small stuff that seemed important. That explained why Mrs. Trumbull rented rooms. Small stuff. Three or four million would seem like nothing to her.
He dialed the phone in the downstairs hall.
Victoria answered.
“Finney Solomon, Mrs. Trumbull. I don’t know if you remember me, but I came by a few days ago and you were kind enough to look at my resume.”
“Certainly I remember you.”
“Well,” said Finney, suddenly feeling awkward, “I’m staying here in West Tisbury.”
Victoria said nothing.
“Would you mind if I called on you again? I’m just down the road.”
“You’re welcome to stop by,” said Victoria.
“Thanks, Mrs. Trumbull. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Make it later, around four,” said Victoria. “I’m in the midst of something right now.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Finney, and set the phone down.
CHAPTER 32
Dorothy checked her watch. Only a few minutes before she had to leave for the airport to pick up Bruce. Why hadn’t he given her more warning? She applied her makeup carefully and checked her hair in the powder room mirror. Her roots showed. She rummaged around in her dresser and found a green velvet hat. That would have to do. She found matching green slacks and a lighthearted floral-print blouse. She mustn’t arrive late at the airport. Bruce had sounded in a horrible temper.
How was she going to explain this strange idea of Orion’s to him?
She’d think about that on the way to the airport.
* * *
Victoria had been going through financial information that Ginny had found on the Internet when Finney called. She was sitting at the cookroom table, where Ginny had set up her laptop and printer.
Tris Waverley seem
ed to be a legitimate businessman trying to make a modest living running an electronics store. He’d deposited a cashier’s check for a thousand dollars around the time the false Dorothy Roche had given him a retainer. However, the week before he was killed, he’d sent a series of cashier’s checks to his sister. The checks totaled more than fifty thousand dollars.
Victoria set the pages aside. “Have you found anything on Basilio Vulpone?”
“I’ve tapped into his computer, but now I have to wait until he does an online bank transaction. Then we’re in.”
“Are you sure this is legal?”
“You don’t want to know, Mrs. Trumbull.”
* * *
Dorothy arrived at the airport as the plane pulled up to the chain-link fence. A slim, tanned young woman in shorts, a sleeveless blouse, and boating shoes waited by the gate. She smiled at Dorothy, who suddenly felt hot and overdressed in her velvet hat and green slacks.
“Are you waiting for your husband?” the woman asked.
“Just a friend,” said Dorothy, and turned slightly so she wouldn’t have to converse.
The propellers slowed and stopped; the pilot climbed down and opened the baggage compartment in the wing.
Dorothy wet her finger and smoothed her eyebrows, pressed her lips together to redistribute the lip gloss she’d applied hastily, and stood with what she hoped was a disarming attitude.
Two passengers disembarked, a nice-looking man dressed in khaki pants, a blazer, and an open-necked shirt, and Bruce.
Dorothy always felt embarrassed when she saw him after a separation. He was soft and doughy, and his eyes looked small in his fleshy face. He wore a rumpled, double-breasted, pin-striped suit with a white shirt and yellow tie.
The ground crew opened the gate.
Bruce put on his sunglasses, hiding his eyes, and glanced toward his fellow passenger, who was grinning and heading toward the young woman in shorts.
Dorothy waved her arm to get Bruce’s attention. He lumbered toward her. The couple had left.
“Just what in hell…” he began.
“Darling, I have so much to tell you! All sorts of exciting things are happening. You’ll be so proud of me.” She took his arm.
The Bee Balm Murders Page 19