The Bee Balm Murders

by Cynthia Riggs

  He shrugged her off. “Gotta pick up my suitcase.”

  “I’m so glad you’re planning to stay.” She followed him inside the building. He lifted his suitcase off the rack and pulled up the handle.

  “I’m dying to tell you about the work I’ve done.” She turned coyly to him. “Would you like to drive?”

  “Where’s that driver you hired?”

  “I wanted it to be just the two of us, darling.”

  Bruce grunted. “You drive. You’ve got one hell of a lot of explaining to do.”

  He stowed his bag in the back of the car and went around to the passenger side. Dorothy was already in the driver’s seat, adjusting her hat, which kept slipping down on her forehead. She felt sweat trickling down behind her ears. She’d have to get to the hairdresser’s right away, before Bruce noticed the roots.

  She pouted prettily. “I have an appointment at the hair salon I simply can’t break. Bad boy, you should have warned me that you were coming.” She backed smoothly out of the parking space and headed away from the airport.

  “Cut the shit, Dorothy. What in hell were you thinking, lunch for fifty people? You crazy?”

  On the way to the airport, Dorothy had decided on innocence, pure girlish innocence. She couldn’t see Bruce’s eyes behind the dark glasses. On the straight road she turned, just long enough for him to see her eyes brimming with tears. “I thought you’d be so proud of me. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Surprise me? Hell, everyone on the Island, everyone on the East Coast knows that some dame called Dorothy Roche is auctioning off a ride on a drill rig and lunch for fifty. Some surprise. I told you…”

  Dorothy turned quickly to him again, the tears oozing down her cheeks now. “I know you wanted me to keep a low profile, but darling,” she looked back at the road. “This was such a wonderful opportunity for you. I know you’re interested in this company of Mr. Nanopoulos’s, and I thought you’d be pleased with me, finding out all I could about it?” She looked at him again.

  “Watch it!” said Bruce, bracing his hands on the dashboard. There was a squeal of tires and the crunch of metal as Dorothy plowed into the back of a red Volvo station wagon driven sedately at exactly the speed limit by an elderly woman.

  * * *

  While they waited for activity on Bruce’s computer, Victoria was getting to know her assistant.

  “Tell me about your sister,” Victoria said, moving the stack of printed pages to one side. “Your last name is Carroll and hers is Roche.”

  “She’s actually my half-sister,” said Ginny. “Two years older. We have the same mother, different dads. Her dad was in the army. He died jumping out of an airplane.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Victoria. “Was he a paratrooper?”

  “It was a friend’s airplane and he did it on a dare.”

  “Good heavens. Did his parachute fail to open?”

  “My mom told me he wasn’t wearing a parachute. That was a couple of months before Dorothy was born.”

  Victoria didn’t know what to say.

  “A year later, my mom married my dad, and here I am. He adopted Dorothy. He’s the only dad she’s ever known.”

  “But she kept her biological father’s name?”

  “Just as her stage name. She’s really Dorothy Carroll. She thinks her dad was a hero, you know? She honors him by being, like, a TV vampire?” Ginny shrugged. “Go figure.” She went back to her computer. “While we wait to see if Mr. Vulpone does an end-of-day bank deposit, I’ll track down that woman using my sister’s name.” Ginny tapped industriously then stopped. “Do you have any clues about her? I’m only coming up with stuff on my sister.”

  Victoria thought a moment. “She claims to have had a limousine service and a cleaning service. She may have had a contract to clean the television studio.”

  “That should do it.” Ginny went back to the keyboard.

  Victoria busied herself in the kitchen, not wanting to stray too far from the magic of the Internet. A few minutes later, Ginny called out, “Hey, Mrs. Trumbull! Got it!”

  Victoria draped the dish towel she’d been using over the towel rack and stepped down into the cookroom. “Triple V,” Ginny looked up, “the vampire TV studio my sister works for? They contracted with Ride-A-Broom Services to clean the studio. Nora Rochester heads the company.”

  “Good job,” said Victoria. “Can you find out anything about Nora Rochester?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  At the end of another half-hour, Victoria had a computer printout of Nora Rochester, a.k.a. the False Dorothy Roche, everything from date of birth fifty-seven years earlier, through three marriages that apparently yielded the money to finance the start-up of her cleaning and limousine services. Before four o’clock, when Finney was due to arrive, Ginny called out again to Victoria, who was sorting brown paper bags she’d saved from her Cronig’s shopping. “He’s made a deposit, Mrs. Trumbull. We’re in!”

  “I don’t understand how that helps,” said Victoria, tucking the bags into a carrier bag.

  Ginny tapped away. “You know the copies of cashier’s checks that woman whose brother was murdered gave you?”

  “Right. Marylou Waverley.”

  “Maybe Mr. Vulpone withdrew the same amounts near those same dates, know what I mean?”

  “I think so.” Victoria stashed the bag of bags in the closet under the stairs and joined Ginny, who gave her another stack of printouts. A short time later, Ginny printed out still more.

  “Wait until you see this, Mrs. Trumbull!” She handed several sheets to Victoria, who looked them over.

  “This is wonderful,” said Victoria. “It confirms what I suspected. Bruce Vulpone is signing the expense account for Dorothy Roche that has her renting a large house on Martha’s Vineyard, cars, chauffeurs, gourmet food.” She looked up from the papers. “I gather your sister Dorothy isn’t renting that house on North Water Street?”

  “You mean, set up by that big fat slob?” Ginny laughed. “No way, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  “And he withdrew fifty thousand dollars from his account shortly before Tris Waverley deposited fifty thousand dollars. Good job, Ginny!”

  * * *

  A short distance from the airport, echoes of the crash of the Mercedes into the red Volvo faded away into the scrub oak alongside the West Tisbury–Edgartown Road along with the tinkle of broken glass dropping piece by piece onto the road.

  The airbags had deployed. The car was full of a nasty white powder and stank of something worrisome. The plastic cover on the steering wheel had flown up into Dorothy’s face and smacked her in the nose, which was bleeding.

  “I hope you kept the insurance up,” Basilio snapped.

  “Yes, yes.” Dorothy was badly shaken and bleeding, yet the bastard hadn’t even asked if she was all right.

  He unbuckled his seat belt, brushed himself off, slithered out of his seat, and limped between the two cars, which had rebounded two feet apart. He kicked aside broken glass from the Volvo’s red taillight and the Mercedes’s clear headlight.

  “What in hell did you think you were doing, lady?” he yelled at the elderly driver. “You could’ve got us killed.”

  The woman opened her car door. No airbag, apparently. She unfolded like a carpenter’s rule until she stood, a good four inches taller than Basilio. She loomed over him. She hadn’t uttered a word until now.

  “What are you talking about, you foolish little man? Are you intoxicated? The top speed limit on this Island is forty-five miles per hour. Your car was going at least sixty.” She folded her long arms over her narrow chest. She was wearing a gray blazer and a sharply pleated gray-and-pink plaid skirt that hung below her knees. “I’m calling the police to insist they issue you a speeding ticket.” She started back to the open door of her car, reached in, and brought out a large leather purse.

  Dorothy continued to sit, waiting for Bruce to realize how severely injured she was. She’d used three tissues to sop up the blood
from her damaged nose. Perhaps broken. If so, she would sue someone. Blood had dripped on her beige silk blouse. What were the symptoms of shock?

  “Check the damage,” Basilio said to the tall woman.

  “Give me your name and phone number,” she replied, extracting a notebook and pen and cell phone from the purse. “I’m on the staff of the Island Enquirer. We’re waging a campaign against speeders.” She looked down at him, notebook and phone in one hand, pen poised in the other. “Your name?”

  “My name…?” He was beginning to sweat. “Oh, hell.” Basilio gave her his name.

  “Address?”

  “Damn!” He gave her that.

  “May I ask what the hurry is? Or was,” she added.

  “My friend … associate … was distracted.”

  “Obviously. I suppose you weren’t wearing seat belts.” The woman checked the Mercedes license plate, jotted it down, and flipped open her cell phone.

  “Wait,” said Basilio. “Why don’t I give you a check? That should cover everything.”

  “You’re bribing me? What on earth are you thinking?” She punched in a number.

  Basilio snatched the phone out of her hand and snapped it shut. “Let’s talk. If there’s no serious damage, no problem. No need for the police. You don’t want a check, I won’t give you a check.”

  “My phone.” She held out her hand.

  “Let’s be reasonable. I’ll pay for the broken taillight. My friend learned her lesson. No more speeding.”

  She continued to hold out her hand.

  “No police. Think of the paperwork, wasted time. This Island is a friendly place.” After a long stretch of silence, he handed the cell phone back to her.

  She took a deep breath. “We’ll see what other damage has been done.” Before she moved she peered through the fogged-up windshield of the Mercedes. “Your friend seems to be injured.”

  Dorothy closed her eyes.

  “She’ll live,” said Basilio, checking the front fender. “Seems to be okay. Only a small dent and the broken headlight.” He looked at the Volvo’s rear. “Taillight and some dents. Can’t tell what’s new.”

  The woman’s mouth was a tight line. “Do you have any comment for the paper?”

  “No comment,” he said. “What are you writing?”

  “I write the garden column.” She folded herself back into the driver’s seat and drove off sedately.

  Basilio got back into the passenger seat. “Bitch,” he said. “I never gave her that check. Let’s go.”

  Dorothy moaned.

  He turned to her. “What in hell’s your problem?”

  * * *

  Victoria was in the kitchen when Finney arrived.

  “Where’s your driver?” she asked.

  “I’m staying at a place down the road. I walked.”

  Victoria introduced him to her assistant.

  Ginny got up from her computer. Victoria, who’d accepted her assistant as a personable-appearing young woman, hadn’t paid much attention to her looks. Now, she had a moment of seeing this young woman through the eyes of a young man, and was struck by how lovely she was.

  Ginny was almost as tall as Victoria and had a trim, athletic figure. Her lustrous blue-black hair was pulled back from her face and held with a silver flower pin. Her eyes, dark brown and slightly almond shaped, were framed by thick, long lashes. No wonder Finney was staring at her, his mouth open, his face flushed.

  Ginny held out her hand and Finney took it in his.

  “You look familiar,” said Ginny. “Have I seen you before someplace?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m sure I have. Where are you from?”

  “The New York area,” said Finney.

  “Jersey City. That’s where I’ve seen you.”

  Finney cleared his throat.

  Victoria sensed an awkwardness she couldn’t quite place. “Would either of you care for a glass of wine?”

  Finney stared at the floor.

  Victoria said, “Ginny?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Trumbull. Back to work.” She indicated the computer with its screen saver of colorful swimming fishes, and sat, her back to Finney.

  Victoria turned to Finney, who was staring at Ginny’s back. “Wine, Finney?”

  “Oh, sorry. Thanks.”

  “Let’s go into the parlor.” She led the way and sat in her wing chair. Finney perched on the stiff couch. Victoria poured the wine.

  “You wanted to talk to me.”

  “Right, Mrs. Trumbull.” The flush faded from his face and his look of assurance returned. “I thought you might be able to help me.”

  Victoria frowned. “Why me?”

  Finney smiled. “I know you’re well connected.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Victoria.

  Finney sat forward on the sofa and twisted his wineglass around and around on the coffee table. “You know the movers and shakers on the Island.”

  Victoria’s connections were to the Island’s poets and writers, sheep farmers, fishermen, and artists. She didn’t think those were the movers and shakers Finney meant.

  “People who get things done, Mrs. Trumbull. People who contribute financially to Island causes. You know.”

  “I don’t believe I do.” Victoria felt a growing distaste for this young man. The other day, when she’d pointed out that the positions he’d overstated were no more than clerical jobs, she’d assumed she’d put him in his place. Apparently not.

  “It’s a great opportunity for you, Mrs. Trumbull. And the Island, of course.”

  “What opportunity are you talking about?”

  “We’ve embarked on an optical-fiber-cable project that will revolutionize the Island and its way of communicating. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”

  Victoria, who’d listened to hours of Orion’s lectures on fiber optics, said nothing. She sipped her wine.

  “It’s not a technology many people understand, Mrs. Trumbull. But for those who invest in our company, the yield will be astronomical.”

  At that, Victoria curled her toes and her sore toe bumped the edge of the hole Elizabeth had cut in her shoe. She gasped in pain.

  Finney didn’t seem to notice, because he went on. “You may have heard of Dorothy Roche, a wealthy woman who’s been on the Island only a few months.”

  Victoria wondered if taking her shoe off would relieve the pain or make it worse. She sat up straight.

  “I’m sure you’ll be seeing her at the Outstretched Palm auction.” He looked with great sincerity at Victoria. “She’s offered a ride on our drill rig and will host a luncheon for fifty friends of the top bidder.”

  “I don’t go to the auction,” Victoria said primly.

  “Oh,” said Finney, taking a gulp of wine.

  Neither spoke for an uncomfortably long time. Finally Finney said, “Dorothy and I hope you’ll invest in UFO.”

  Victoria looked puzzled. “Invest?”

  “The return on your investment would enable your grandchildren to live quite comfortably.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Three million would give you an excellent return.”

  “Three million? Dollars?” Her toe throbbed.

  “It’s a great opportunity.” Finney sat back, having said what he’d intended. “I’ll be glad to handle the paperwork.”

  Victoria was speechless. She stared at this very young man, her eyes wide open, her nose lifted.

  “We’ll discuss this with your financial advisor if you’d prefer,” Finney said. “Perhaps you’d feel more comfortable dealing with him.” Victoria was still staring at him. “Or her, of course,” he added.

  Victoria rose from her seat. “Young man,” she said in her deep, firm voice. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  It was Finney’s turn to look puzzled. “But Mrs. Trumbull, we’ve hardly spoken.”

  “Let me show you out,” said Victoria, wincing with pain as she s
tood up.

  * * *

  After Finney left, Victoria stormed into the cookroom, pulled out her chair, and sat down with a thump. Ginny lifted her hands from the keyboard.

  “The idea. The very idea,” said Victoria. “You seemed to know him.”

  “He’s an arrogant creep, Mrs. Trumbull. Besides that, he’s stupid. I suppose he can’t help being stupid.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He went to the community college my sister attended.”

  “In Jersey City?”

  She nodded. “He studied business and didn’t do all that well. He kept hitting on the women students and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Real asshole. Excuse me, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  “Understandable,” said Victoria, and began to unlace her shoe.

  CHAPTER 33

  Back in his room, Finney crossed Mrs. Trumbull off his list of investors. She had almost literally thrown him out of her house. Eccentric was a good description. Here she was, with a chauffeured Bentley, yet she dressed like a bag lady and lived in that shabby old house.

  Finney looked at his watch and decided he’d have to talk to Dorothy. He hiked the quarter-mile up New Lane from his bed-and-breakfast to Edgartown Road and the bus route. Doane’s newly hayed pasture was on his left; Mrs. Trumbull’s overgrown meadow was on his right. A kid sailed past him on a bicycle. The bus was due in about ten minutes. While he waited, he went through his wallet to see how much money he had. He pulled out his bus pass. That was a wise investment. He smiled when he thought of a bus pass as an investment compared to the fourteen million he had in mind. When the bus showed up he climbed aboard.

  “Nice day,” said the driver, a pleasant woman.

  “Right,” said Finney, who didn’t feel as though it was a nice day at all. He sat in the back of the bus. At the last stop on Church Street, he left the bus and walked over to North Water Street. Dorothy’s Mercedes was parked in the space next to her house, and she was sitting in it. The windows looked as though they were steamed up.

  Was he intruding on something? Was Dorothy reliving some past adventure in the back seat of a car?

  Then he realized the steam was actually white powder. He could barely make out a second figure in the passenger seat. He rapped on the driver’s side window. Dorothy lowered it.