Death and Honesty (8 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

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

BOOK: Death and Honesty
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Mrs. Danvers was about to take her salad out of the Town Hall refrigerator when the glass in the door rattled, announcing that someone had entered. She looked up.
“Well!” She straightened up when she saw who it was and looked significantly at the clock between the tall windows. “Nice of you to come to work today,
Mr.
Ashpine.” She peered at the assessors’ clerk, prepared to tell him exactly what she thought of his late hours. And then she looked again. “What happened to you?”
Oliver was pale. His usually sleek hair was tousled. Behind his thick glasses, his magnified eyes were watery. His natty clothes were awry.
“What’s the matter with you?” Mrs. Danvers repeated.
Oliver ignored her and headed toward the boxes that held staff mail.
“Are you deaf?” Mrs. Danvers turned to face him. “We’ve already gone through your mail. Someone has to answer the complaints. I certainly can’t.”
Oliver turned away from the mailboxes and headed toward the stairs that led up to his office.
“If you’re sick, the least you could have done was call.” When he still didn’t answer she added, “I don’t suppose you ever heard of a telephone.”
Without a word, Oliver stumped up the stairs.
Mrs. Danvers looked at the clock again, lifted the phone receiver to call one of the selectmen, changed her mind and put the receiver down, picked it up again to call one of the assessors, decided against that, and shoved her chair away from her desk.
If Oliver was sick, and he certainly looked sick, why did he
bother to come in at all? He wasn’t going to accomplish anything, the way he looked. Giving everyone his germs. If he wanted sympathy, he certainly wasn’t going to get it from her.
Mrs. Danvers removed her salad from the refrigerator, doused it with more dressing than she had intended, and took it back to her desk, where she chewed steadily, grinding the lettuce and celery and carrots into smaller and smaller indigestible particles.
 
While Mrs. Danvers was working on her salad, Ocypete and Selena were seated on the porch of the Black Dog Tavern overlooking the harbor. Ocypete checked her watch. “This is the second time she’s been late. Last time …” she didn’t finish.
“Last time, Lucy was murdered,” Selena said. “Shall we go ahead and order?”
“We’d better. I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon at two.”
“I hope it’s not serious? One worries so …”
“Just a tummy ache,” said Ocypete. “Nothing to be concerned about.”
“Speaking of doctors, I hope Ellen is all right. Last time it was an emergency medical appointment off Island.”
“Dental,” Ocypete corrected. “Broke her upper plate.”
“I’ll have the green salad, darlin’,” Selena said to the waitress who’d appeared with two glasses of water. “With just a bit of house dressing. On the side, please?”
“Hamburger,” said Ocypete. “Rare. Not pink, red.”
“Anything to drink?” asked the waitress.
“Iced tea for me,” said Ocypete.
“I’ll have the same.”
They watched the
Islander
round the jetty and pull into its slip. The waitress brought their orders. Cars and trucks from the ferry drove past. Heavy clouds moved in from the northeast. Ocypete checked her watch. They nattered on about weather, gardens, and summer visitors.
“What could possibly be keeping her?” Selena asked as they nibbled and chewed. “I don’t understand how she could sleep in that house under the circumstances.”
“This is just like last time.”
“In a way, you can’t blame her. I mean, Lucy’s death. But you’d think she’d call.”
A half-hour passed. The
Islander,
loaded for the return trip to the mainland, backed out of its slip, rounded the jetty, and disappeared from view.
Selena forked up the last of her salad and crumpled her paper napkin on the table. “You’d think she’d call.”
Ocypete checked her cell phone and put it back in her purse. “Perhaps she left messages on our answering machines.”
“Twice in a row. This isn’t like her at all.”
“Want to stop by her house?” asked Ocypete.
“Maybe the killer struck again. The police seem to think he mistook Lucy for Ellen. Why did she insist on sleeping in her house after that?”
Ocypete dipped the last hunk of hamburger roll into the pool of blood remaining on her plate. “I’ll pick you up after my doctor’s appointment. Let’s say, four o’clock.”
 
Long after the police left with the body bag, Delilah remained seated on the couch. By now it was almost two o’clock, and she was still dressed in her peignoir and high-heeled mules.
“Henry, I simply can’t understand why the police took Darcy away. Clearly the drowning was an accident.”
Henry clasped his hands behind his back and paced. His shoes squeaked on the slate floor.
“Your pacing is driving me crazy,” said Delilah.
Henry halted abruptly in front of her. His usually cherubic face was dark with anger. “Who’s Darcy?”
“My chauffeur, of course.” Delilah stood up so she could look down on Henry and flicked her filmy dressing gown around her in a swirl.
“Where’d he come from?”
“The agency in Boston.”
“What agency?”
“For heaven’s sake, Henry. What’s your problem?”
Henry turned his back to her and mumbled something.
“I didn’t hear you.” She thrust her hands into the pockets of her gown.
He turned again and they stared at each other until he broke eye contact.
She pranced over to the orchids and fingered the bark soil. “Dry. You’d better remind Lee to water them.”
“What agency?” he repeated.
Delilah brushed the soil off her hands. “The same one that sent Barry to me five years ago. I’ve dealt with them dozens of times.” She walked back to the couch and sank into it with a flutter of purple and green silk. “Barry quit.”
“What reason did he give?”
“A family problem. I don’t pry into my staff’s personal business.”
“Did you call Darcy’s references?”
“Of course not. The agency takes care of that.” She laid her arm along the back of the couch and looked up at him. “What is the matter with you, Henry?”
“The matter with me is that your chauffeur killed my pilot, that’s what’s the matter.” Henry turned and squeaked across the floor toward the windows. “Why? And who the hell is Darcy?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Delilah flung herself out of the couch again, brushed past the orchids, and stood beside him, hands on her hips. “Who I hire as my chauffeur is my business. And my chauffeur is no killer.”
Henry stared up at her. His thick glasses reflected her face. His trim white mustache was slightly askew. “This Darcy person has been here for, what, a week? Two weeks?”
“You’re being overly dramatic, as usual. Your pilot fell into the pond by accident.” She spoke each word distinctly.
“At the airport, your Darcy and my pilot recognized each other. Why? How did they know each other?”
“What makes you say that?”
“I could tell. Where had they known each other?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Below them the yellow police tape fluttered in the light midday breeze. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for lunch. Ring Lee, will you, darling?”
“Even if you’d done the sensible thing, checked references, I suppose everything would have been in order. Who is he? Who does he work for?”
“He’s an excellent driver. Ring Lee. Or shall I?”
“Of course he would be an excellent driver. And he probably speaks four or five languages and has a degree in killing people.” Henry pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. “FBI? CIA? Mafia? Independent? Who, who, who?”
“You left out Homeland Security. Henry, darling,
why
would he want to kill your pilot?” She bent over, picked up the bell, and rang it vigorously.
“Damned if I know.”
“He wasn’t your usual pilot, was he?”
“I’ve flown with him a few times.”
“What happened to your usual pilot?”
“Yes, ma’am?” Lee had appeared without a sound.
“Sandwiches, please, Lee. And something to drink. White wine.”
Lee bowed her head and left.
Henry waited until she was out of hearing. “My usual pilot had a family emergency.”
“A family emergency? Naturally.” She set her hands on her hips and laughed, then strode the length of the orchids and back. Her peignoir brushed a spray of small brown and yellow blossoms and set it in motion. “According to your fantasy, Darcy and the pilot are probably hired killers. Who are they after? Tell me that. You? Or me?” Delilah stopped her own pacing abruptly. “That pilot could have killed you at any time. Why wait until you got back to the Island?” She resumed her pacing. “On the other hand, if he was here to kill me … !” She pointed at her ample bosom.
“Your luncheon, ma’am.”
Delilah whirled around. “You startled me, Lee. Knock before you enter, will you?”
“Yes, ma‘am. I’m sorry.” Lee set down a tray with a plate of sandwiches and glasses of wine. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”
“Leave Mr. Sampson and me alone and shut the door.”
“My name is True. The Reverend True.”
Lee bowed and shut the door firmly behind her.
“You were saying, as we were interrupted, ‘he was here to kill me.’” Henry’s parted lips were moist beneath his mustache. “Your girl now has that nice tidbit to spread around the Island.”
 
Victoria had finished her lunch and was working on her column when the phone rang. “Mrs. Trumbull? This is Darcy.”
Victoria held the phone close to her ear. “Where are you?”
“In jail.”
“What!?”
“The Dukes County House of Correction. I need help.”
Victoria looked at her watch. “I’ll be there within a half hour.”
She gathered up her cloth bag, checked to make sure her blue hat with gold stitching was inside, shrugged into her padded blue coat, fetched her stick from beside the entry door, and strode around to the front of her house. The elegant front door with its Sandwich Glass panes was used only for grand occasions. It was the only door that was locked, and that because whenever the wind was northeast, the door blew open.
The sky was overcast and she could smell rain, probably arriving by this evening. She stood far enough back from the road so she wouldn’t be run down by a speeding construction vehicle. To her left, almost as far away as the police station, she could see a blue dump truck approaching. Sunlight glinted on its polished hood. She stepped forward and stuck out her thumb. The cobalt blue truck slowed and stopped. The driver, a tall young man with a shock of unruly dark hair, got out, reached into the back of his cab, brought out a box for Victoria to use as a step, and helped her up into the high passenger seat.
“Thank you,” said Victoria. “You’re Bill O’Malley, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Where are you headed, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“To the jail,” said Victoria.
“Visiting a friend?”
“I’m not sure who I’m visiting,” said Victoria, avoiding his eyes.
“I have to make a quick stop at the airport first, if you don’t mind.”
Victoria looked around as the truck started up again. “Are you taking the stumps to the airport?”
“No, ma’am. Just need to stop long enough to get someone’s name, and then we’ll be on our way”
After her doctor’s appointment, Ocypete drove directly to Selena’s, a small overly cozy house with most of the furniture slipcovered in chintz. China figurines cluttered the shelves of dark, glass-fronted bookcases.
Selena met her at the door. “Let me take your coat, Petey, darlin’.” She glanced at the sky. “Looks like we might have a bit more rain. What did the doctor say?”
“He thought I might have a virus or a touch of food poisoning.”
“That raw hamburger you ate …” said Selena.
“I’ve had this since the day before yesterday I’m supposed to go back in a couple of days if I don’t feel better. He’s put me on a bland diet.”
Selena glanced toward the kitchen. “I hear my phone. Please, make yourself comfortable.” She wiggled her fingers. “Be right back!”
A few minutes later she returned, looking puzzled. “That was strange.”
Ocypete was seated in one of the easy chairs. The shiny crimson peonies of the slipcover clashed with her tie-dyed layers of magenta and orange gauze. “Who was it?” she asked.
“Ellen. Apologizing. She claims she doesn’t feel well and forgot our luncheon date.”
Ocypete sighed. “I called her before I left the house to confirm.”
“So you said.” Selena looked troubled. “You can’t blame Ellen for being disoriented, with all that’s going on, Lucy killed in her house, but …” Selena perched on the sofa. “She did say she was ill.”
“That came on suddenly,” Ocypete said. “She was entirely herself yesterday. In full control, as usual.”
“The way she handled Oliver!” Selena drawled.
They both laughed.
“I almost felt sorry for Oliver,” said Ocypete.
“Maybe Ellen’s having a delayed reaction. Do you have time for a cup of tea?” Selena stood up again.
“That might help settle my stomach. I’m glad we don’t think we need to check on Ellen after all.”
 
At Town Hall, Oliver switched on his computer. The session with Willoughby this morning had drained him. He felt just as bad as he looked, but before he left for the day, he had to encrypt a large number of files. Either that or copy and destroy them. Those files were valuable and dangerous. No one, absolutely no one, could be allowed access to those files. He
must
get them copied today.
Several times during the afternoon he left what he considered his office on the second floor of Town Hall and walked to Alley’s store. He’d bought a Boston Globe one time, a package of peanut butter crackers the next, a Diet Coke, a copy of the
Island Enquirer.
He needed to calm down after this morning’s encounter and at the same time see what was happening at the Meadows house across the road.
“You should make a list, Mr. Ashpine, save yourself a few trips,” said the lanky boy who waited on him. “Going to have more rain. You can smell it in the air.”
“We’ve had enough rain,” growled Oliver, as though the weather was the boy’s fault.
From Alley’s porch, everything at the Meadows house looked the same as it had all day No one seemed to be around. Ellen’s car was not in its usual place under the linden tree. The front window was still open, held up by a wooden stick he could see from here. The breeze that presaged rain billowed the sheer curtains into the room, then an errant current swept them out again, and he could hear the fluttering sound they made in the growing wind. Someone ought to shut that window before the rain came. Although, actually, why should he care?
 
The sheriff met Victoria at the jail in Edgartown, in what was once the front hall of an elegant captain’s house. Victoria knew
the sheriff only by sight. But he looked like one of the Nortons, and was probably a cousin of hers.
“Mrs. Trumbull, I’m Tom Look, a great admirer of your poetry.”
“Julia Norton’s eldest son?”
“The youngest. Walter, John, then me.” Sheriff Look’s beaklike nose was almost as fine as Victoria’s own. They shook hands.
He produced a clipboard with a sheaf of paperwork for her to fill out. “Sorry about the formalities, Mrs. Trumbull,” he said. “Times have changed.”
“That’s quite all right. I understand.”
“Mr. Remey is waiting for you upstairs in the conference room. You need help on those stairs?”
Victoria adjusted her baseball cap. “No, thank you.” She stood up, looked toward the top of the steep wooden stairs, and started up. Halfway up, she stopped to catch her breath.
“You okay, Mrs. Trumbull?” Cousin Sheriff Look, right behind her, sounded concerned.
“Certainly.” Victoria pointed at some ornate carving. “This looks like the original stairway.”
“Somewhat the worse for wear. The building dates from around the 1870s and I guess the stairway does, too.”
Once she’d caught her breath, Victoria continued up the stairs to the top, where a uniformed guard, a teenager with cropped red hair and freckles, stood by an open door. The door led into a dreary room almost completely taken up by a scarred wooden table, where Darcy sat facing her, his back to the barred window. He stood when she entered.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Remey alone,” Victoria said.
The sheriff checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes enough for you, Mrs. Trumbull? Richie will stay outside where he can see you, but he won’t be close enough to hear you.”
Victoria looked at Darcy, who nodded.
She seated herself at the narrow end of the table close to Darcy and with her back to the guard, and unbuttoned her blue coat. “How can I help?”
Darcy’s eyes had dark shadows under them. He was still wearing the clothing he’d changed into this morning, not his
chauffeur’s uniform, but jeans and a plaid shirt. He tapped his fingers nervously on the table and glanced at the writing on Victoria’s hat. The corners of his mouth twitched and he stopped tapping.
“I had nothing to do with the pilot’s death, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“I didn’t think for a moment that you did.”
“I’m in one hell of an awkward situation. Someone’s framing me.”
Victoria waited, hands clasped on the table. Darcy began to tap his fingers again. He looked up at the ceiling, where a large fly bumbled against the caged bare lightbulb, then down at the dirty, scarred table. He reached into the pocket of his plaid shirt and brought out a torn sheet of lined yellow paper with a phone number. “There’s no one else I can trust, Mrs. Trumbull.”
Victoria smiled.
He handed the paper to her. “Please call this number. Identify yourself to whoever answers and say you’re calling for me.”
“Who shall I say you are?”
“Emery Meyer. They’ll know who you mean.”
“And then what?”
“Tell them Frank Morris is dead.”
Victoria sat forward. “Who?”
“You don’t want to know. Tell them I’m in jail, suspected of killing him.”
“The pilot.” Victoria sat back again. “Do I need to know what this is all about?”
“You’re better off not knowing. But you’ll be saving my neck by calling. Don’t lose that.” He indicated the slip of paper. “And don’t let anyone else see it.”
“I’ll memorize it, tear up the paper, and swallow the pieces.”
“That’s my girl!”
“May I ask who you’re working for?”
“You certainly may ask, Mrs. Trumbull. But I won’t answer.”
Victoria got up with a sigh. “Do you know how long you’ll be here?” Her gesture included the entire building.
“That depends somewhat on your phone call.” Darcy, too, stood up.
“Is the jail very uncomfortable?”
He shrugged. “I’m in a cell they cleaned up and painted an ugly shade of pink for a lady lawyer they incarcerated a few years back. Aside from the color, it’s not too bad.”
“And the food?”
“You know that French chef who was convicted of drug trafficking?”
“Howland Atherton is responsible for his being here.”
“Thank Mr. Atherton for me, will you?” Darcy patted his stomach and looked at his watch. “Two hours to dinner. By the way, don’t, under any circumstances, tell Atherton about the call I asked you to make.”
Victoria buttoned her coat again. “Call me if you need anything else.
Darcy,”
she added with a wicked smile.
He looked down and with his finger traced a section of the graffiti that covered the tabletop. “You know that poem of Robert Frost’s that begins, ‘She is as in a field a silken tent …’?” He looked up, and she nodded. “Well, you’re my silken tent, Mrs. Trumbull. Thank you.”
Victoria took off her baseball cap and turned away so he couldn’t see her eyes.

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