Death and Honesty (3 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Cozy

BOOK: Death and Honesty
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By the time Delilah emerged from the bathroom with the tearstained damage to her face repaired, Victoria had made up her mind. “I’ll talk to Oliver Ashpine about your assessment. Will you give me a ride to Town Hall?” She glanced down at the knees of her gray corduroy slacks, stained from kneeling by her flower borders earlier that afternoon, and brushed off what dirt she could.
“Thank you, Mrs. Trumbull. You won’t tell him what I said? I mean, about my farm and divorce?”
“You needn’t worry about that.”
“Darcy can drop you off at Town Hall and bring you home again.”
McCavity, Victoria’s marmalade cat, rubbed up against her. She gave him some fresh cat chow and filled his water bowl. She then left a note for Elizabeth, who was at work.
Once they were outside, the chauffeur held the limousine door for them. Victoria could see only his mouth, set in a faint, crooked smile. His visored cap shaded his face. Something about him was familiar. Where had she seen him before? She climbed into the backseat, sank into the soft leather upholstery, and stretched out her long legs.
Delilah slid in next to her. “Town Hall, Darcy.”
The car wafted them away. Victoria could scarcely feel the ruts and bumps in her driveway. Delilah chattered, but Victoria heard only the rich hum of the car’s engine.
As they passed the West Tisbury police station, she saw the police Bronco out front. Casey was at work and Victoria felt a pang of regret. She hadn’t ridden shotgun with Casey for more than a week.
At Town Hall, the chauffeur opened the door and offered Victoria his arm.
Delilah leaned toward her. “Thanks, Mrs. Trumbull.”
 
What was now Town Hall had been Victoria’s school when she was a girl. The downstairs didn’t look much different. There were no desks or slate blackboards, of course. But iron posts still rose from floor to ceiling and the floor was painted the same scuffed green she remembered.
She climbed the stairs to the second floor. Oliver Ashpine, the assessors’ clerk, had office space in the far corner of the building overlooking Music Street. Padded cloth screens divided his area from the rest of the room. He was hunched over his computer, his back to her. She could see the screen, which seemed to be showing a movie.
“Oliver!” Victoria announced.
He started, then tapped a key that darkened the screen and swiveled to face her. “Back again, I see. Is there something else you want?”
“I need to look at property cards.” Victoria settled herself into the visitor’s chair that faced Oliver’s tidy desk. The top was clear except for a cup holding pencils and pens, a calendar pad with appointments penciled in, and a white pasteboard candy box. She folded her hands over the top of her stick and waited.
Oliver shoved a pad of yellow forms toward her. “I’m in the midst of something and can’t help you now. You’ll have to fill out a request.”
“Whatever you’re watching on your computer can wait while you get the property cards for me.”
Oliver stood and removed his glasses. He was a short, plump man. His black hair was slicked down as if it were painted on his scalp. He swung his glasses by one temple, leaned a hand on the desk, and glared at Victoria through pale blue eyes.
Victoria waited.
At last he said, “Why do you want the cards?”
“I don’t care to tell you why As I’m sure you know, Massachusetts law says you have no business asking me.”
“Does this have to do with your house?”
Victoria gazed at him.
He put his glasses back on and stood up straight. “The cards are not available.”
“Then I’ll wait until they are.”
“I believe the assessors are going over them.”
Victoria looked around the empty room and thought of the black-and-white file box on Ellen Meadows’s dining room table and the property cards spread around. “I assume the assessors haven’t taken those cards out of Town Hall?”
“I’m busy, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“I think not.”
“Assessing properties is complex.”
“Perhaps you will explain it to me, then,” and Victoria smiled.
“Mrs. Trumbull, I’ll have the cards ready for you tomorrow. Which properties are you interested in?”
“Everything west of the airport and east of Tea Lane. You can exclude the properties in the very center.”
“You want the whole town of West Tisbury, is that it? You’re asking for more than two hundred cards.”
“I want all of the properties I just mentioned. I’ll wait until you bring them to me.”
“You’ll have to examine the property cards here,” said Oliver, pointing to the floor.
“Fine. I’ll photocopy what I need.”
“That’s fifty cents a copy,” said Oliver.
“Ridiculous. By law, it’s twenty cents a copy”
“Twenty-five, then,” said Oliver.
Victoria took out her checkbook. “Twenty.”
“No checks.”
“You’ll take mine.” Victoria filled out the check, leaving the amount blank. “Where do you keep the cards?”
Oliver paused for such a long time, Victoria wasn’t sure he was going to give in. But he turned abruptly, went to an olive green file cabinet between the two windows overlooking Music Street, opened the top drawer, scrabbled through the files, and finally produced several stacks of four-by-seven-inch cards.
“As I said, the assessors are working with some of the cards. They’re not all here. You can’t take these out of the building, you know.”
“Thank you, Oliver.”
“Use that empty desk. I’ll have someone show you how to operate the copier.”
“I know how to operate the copier.”
Victoria found the card for her own property and the one for Delilah’s, several of Delilah’s neighbors’ properties, and several of Victoria’s own neighbors.
“Find what you were looking for?” Oliver asked.
At that point the phone rang. Oliver answered. After a long silence, during which he glanced from Victoria to the copier to the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and back to Victoria, he said to the caller, “I can’t talk now, Ellen. Let me get to another phone.” He punched the hold button and set down the phone.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Don’t disturb anything while I’m gone.”
He headed downstairs to the one private phone in the building. Victoria immediately went to the filing cabinet and found, in the unlocked bottom drawer that Oliver had been eyeing, two thick folders marked “DS.” She hurriedly copied everything in both folders, and, without looking at them, tucked the copies into her cloth bag and replaced the folders in the bottom drawer. She was about to sit down again when she noticed the white pasteboard candy box. She peeked inside. Fruit jellies. They called the candy Turkish delight when she was a child. She hadn’t had a fruit jelly for a long time. She was just about to help herself to a piece when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She closed the box quickly and returned to her seat. By the time Oliver returned, she was sitting in her chair, rosy-cheeked but calm.
Oliver, himself, was pink-cheeked and perspiring.
“I’ve made copies of a nice selection of cards and will examine them when I get home,” said Victoria. She separated out a dozen pages. “Now, will you please show me the bills you sent out for these properties?”
Oliver looked at his watch. “I don’t have the time.”
“I can imagine,” said Victoria. “The bills, please.” She settled
back in the chair and thumbed through her photocopies. When she got to Delilah’s property she sat up straight. Oliver was shuffling through manila folders in the top file drawer.
“Oliver!” she called out.
“What now?” He shoved some papers from his desk into a folder and went over to the filing cabinet.
“Would you please explain this?” Victoria held up the copy of Delilah’s card. “Do the assessors know about it?”
“Mrs. Trumbull,” Oliver said with exaggerated patience. “Do you want me to find the bills or do you want me to explain the property cards …” he looked over at the copy Victoria was holding up and stopped in mid-sentence.
“Both. Bills first. Is this a mistake on Miss Sampson’s assessment?” She waved her copy at him. “This says her property is assessed at fifteen million dollars. Yet I understand she was billed based on a twenty-million-dollar assessment. And there’s a third bill based on eighteen million. Which is correct?”
Oliver sighed. “The assessment procedure is complicated, Mrs. Trumbull. Assessors need years of training. Experience.”
“Oh? To reach three different figures?”
“Our assessments are based on complex formulas and neighborhood designations. A layman can’t understand.”
“Surely you agree that something is wrong here,” Victoria insisted.
Oliver twitched a stack of jammed paper out of the copier and threw it on the floor. “You’ve gummed up this goddamned machine.”
Victoria gathered up her copies of the bills, placed them in the cloth bag along with the copies of the property cards and files marked DS, thanked Oliver, proceeded carefully down the stairs, and marched out to the waiting limousine. Darcy was standing by the passenger door.
Oliver pounded down the stairs behind her. “The check!” he shouted, tripping on the bottom step. “You didn’t give me the check!”
But Victoria was smiling up at the chauffeur and didn’t hear the assessors’ clerk.
Victoria set down her heavy cloth bag next to the limousine. She hadn’t realized how many copies she’d made.
“I’ll put that on the front seat for you, madam,” the chauffeur said.
Victoria hesitated, then passed her bag to him. The only irreplaceable item in the bag was her notebook, with the start of a sonnet she was working on. While the chauffeur was stowing her bag, she studied what she could see of his face. She could make out only his bright eyes, high cheekbones, and cleft chin. And his mouth, of course, set in that twisted half smile. The chauffeur, Darcy, was taller than she was, well over six feet. He might have been playing the part of a chauffeur in a movie. Except for that smile, he had absolutely no expression.
Why was he so familiar?
She took a deep breath and climbed into the backseat. Darcy slammed the door with an expensive thunk. Before they turned onto South Road, Victoria saw his eyes in the rearview mirror, watching her.
The glass partition that separated the driver from passengers slid down silently. “Madam,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Miss Sampson has asked that I invite you to tea.”
His voice was familiar, too, an actor’s deep, resonant voice. Victoria’s uneasiness grew. Then she thought of the unappetizing cold tea she’d left on her table. And the police station where Casey was working without her. Did she want to ride alone with this strangely familiar man? Adrenaline kicked in. Of course she did. “Thank you, Darcy, I’d enjoy that.”
“Shall I take you directly there, madam?”
“By all means.”
He said nothing more. The direction they were going seemed right for the old Hammond place. They turned off North Road between two granite posts onto a dirt track and continued for perhaps a half mile. The limousine came to a fork in the road and paused before turning onto a smaller track. Darcy was watching her in the rearview mirror.
Victoria sat forward. It had all come back to her.
She rapped on the partially open glass. “Darcy?”
He glanced in the mirror. “Yes, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“Back there, ‘Two roads diverged …”’
“Yes, Mrs. Trumbull. ‘I took the one less traveled … .’” He smiled.
“It’s you, Emery Meyer! Why on earth are you working for Delilah Sampson?” Victoria leaned forward. “Jewels?”
“Please, Mrs. Trumbull. My name is Darcy.”
 
The town clock struck five. Joe Hanover and Lincoln Sibert, two of the regulars on Alley’s porch, checked their watches.
“Clock’s been running slow for a couple days,” said Joe. He leaned against the porch railing. “What in hell do you suppose is going on with the assessors now?”
“What do you mean?” Sarah Germaine had stopped at Alley’s on her way home from tribal headquarters in Aquinnah. Today she wore a dressy black sweatshirt with bright feathers painted around the neck and shoulders.
Joe switched whatever he was chewing from one side of his mouth to the other. “You seen that white limo?”
“You can hardly miss it,” said Sarah.
“Belongs to that woman who bought the old Hammond place,” said Lincoln, who was leaning against the door frame. “North Shore. Born-again Christian or something.”
“Hubby’s the born-again, not her,” said Joe, chewing.
Lincoln shrugged. “The car’s hers, anyway.”
Joe spat something off to one side. “Before you got here, the driver waves me over, rolls down the window, and asks the way to Mrs. Trumbull’s.”
“So?”
“I seen the guy before. Him and Mrs. Trumbull was pret-ty cozy a while back. Why’s he need to ask how to get to her place?”
“The same person?”
“I never forget a face. The guy was even cozier with our dear sweet little selectman, Noodles.”
“Select-
person,”
said Sarah. “Her name is Lucretia.”
“Select-
man,”
said Joe. “Legal title.”
“What about the assessors?” asked Lincoln.
“I’m getting to it. So the limo makes a U-turn and heads for Mrs. T.’s. Twenty, twenty-five minutes later, limo comes back again this way and lets Mrs. T. off at Town Hall. Mrs. T.’s in there almost an hour, the limo comes back, she gets in, and off they go.”
Lincoln made a beckoning sign. “The assessors?”
“Hold your horses,” said Joe. “Ashpine comes out shouting, ‘You didn’t give me the check!’ …”
“Mrs. Trumbull stiffed him?” asked Sarah, appalled.
“Seems so. Then Ashpine runs across to Ellen Meadows’s place. The assessors been confabbing all afternoon.”
Lincoln crossed his ankles. “Transacting town business?”
Joe lifted his faded red cap that read “Drains R Us,” and scratched his head. “Think they care if it’s illegal? Ellen, Selena, and what’s her name. All three together.”
“Ocypete,” said Sarah. “‘Oh-SIP-i-tee,”’ she repeated.
Lincoln detached himself from the door frame, went to the edge of the porch, and peered at Ellen’s house across the road. “I’d give two cents to know what they’re talking about.”
“That much?” said Joe.
 
While the Alley’s regulars tried to figure out what the assessors were scheming, the three women had seated their clerk on the dining room chair that had one leg shorter than the others, then returned to their places on either side of him.
“Sorry to hear about your neighbor,” said Oliver in an attempt at normal conversation.
Ellen stared at him without a word and moved the Tiffany reproduction lampshade so the lightbulb shone on his face. “You are a very stupid man,” she said. “Very.”
“You’re killin’ the goose that laid …”
“Selena!” Ellen slapped the table and both Oliver and Selena jumped.
“I only meant that …”
“Enough!” snapped Ellen.
Oliver’s chair rocked onto the shorter leg as he sat forward. “Perhaps you ladies can tell me what the problem seems to be.”
“Seems to be!” Ocypete stretched her arms out dramatically, and the gauzy fabric of her sleeves rippled like the wings of a moth.
“A small problem of triple-dipping,” said Ellen.
“Avaricious bastard,” muttered Ocypete.
Oliver sat back again. “I have no idea what you ladies are talking about.”
Ellen interrupted him. “We’d agreed on a four-way split of Delilah Sampson’s fifteen thousand dollars you’d allegedly deposited in the setting-aside account, right?”
Selena referred to the notes in front of her. “Three thousand to Oliver, four thousand to each of us.”
“Three thousand wasn’t enough for you?” snarled Ocypete.
Oliver held both hands in the air. “I haven’t the least idea where all this is leading.”
“You wearing a wire?” Ocypete asked suddenly.
He turned on her. “What?”
“A wire. You taping this conversation?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” A drop of sweat appeared from beneath Oliver’s hairline and trickled down his temple.
“You underestimate Miss Sampson, and you underestimate us,” said Ellen. “Now Victoria Trumbull seems to have become involved. Are you underestimating her, too?”
Oliver let out his breath. “Mrs. Trumbull? What about Mrs. Trumbull?”
“Everyone in the village saw Victoria Trumbull drive up in Delilah Sampson’s limousine,” Ellen said. “I suppose she marched up to your office simply to give you a check for her taxes?”
“She didn’t give me the check …”
“What do you intend to do about this hornet’s nest you’ve
stirred up?” Ellen tapped her pencil to demonstrate the stirring up of a hornet’s nest.
Ocypete lined up the stack of property cards in front of her. “Victoria Trumbull is not someone you want to diddle with, Oliver.”
Oliver shuddered.
Selena read off some figures. “The amount we had agreed to divide was fifteen thousand, three hundred, and some odd dollars …”
Ellen interrupted with her own figures. “You planned to skim off an additional ten thousand. Did you intend to share that, Oliver?”
“Unscrupulous!” exclaimed Selena.
“What do you plan to do about this, Oliver?”
“About what?”
Ellen stood, looming over him. “You’re even more stupid than Tillie. We were fools to trust you.”
A second and third drop of sweat trickled down Oliver’s forehead. Selena handed him her hanky. He wiped his face with it and continued to hold it, picking absently at the tatted lace edging.
“Well?” said Ellen.
“There’s been a mistake, ladies.”
“Goddamned right there’s been a mistake,” said Ocypete.
“I mean, I’ll tell Miss Sampson I made a mistake.”
Ellen rested both hands on the table and moved so her face was inches from his. He backed up and the chair rocked. “A three-million-dollar mistake, Oliver? Or a five-million-dollar mistake? Which one, Oliver?”
The clock in the church tolled six.
Oliver stood and his chair fell over. “I’ll talk to you first thing in the morning. I’ve got to leave now.”
Ellen stood up straight. “I think not, Mr. Ashpine.”

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