Indian Pipes (18 page)

Patience raised her eyebrows and looked from Peter to Bugs. “Where did Mr. Burkhardt get enough money to throw around in such a way?”

Peter turned and stared out at the parking lot and the Indian
parked by the white Cadillac. A ray of sunlight reflected off the Indian’s bright pipes and shone on Peter’s high cheekbones.

“It’s a beautiful bike,” Peter said.

“ ‘Other companies build motorcycles,’ “ Bugs quoted. “ ‘We manufacture dreams.’ That was the Indian Motocycle Company’s motto.”

Victoria stood next to the dining room table, her back straight. “I am staying in my own house, Howland, and that’s final.”

Late afternoon sun glistened in the imperfections and bubbles of the old glass panes of the west windows. Dust motes danced and sparkled in a beam of light that angled across the floor, spotlighting a worn place in the carpet.

At her insistence, Dojan had taken Victoria home and was standing behind her, holding her cloth bag.

“You’ve got to stay away for a couple of nights, at least.” Howland thrust his hands into his pockets.

“You’re being ridiculous. The computer isn’t here—where is it, by the way?”

“Locked in the back of my car with a blanket over it.”

Victoria nodded. “And there’s nothing I know that everybody else on the Island doesn’t know.”

“There’s a killer loose, Victoria. We don’t know who it is or why Burkhardt and Hiram were killed. Until we have some answers, you’re not safe.”

“That’s absurd.” The wrinkles of Victoria’s face set stubbornly. She pulled out one of the side chairs at the table and sat. She smoothed the tablecloth absently.

“Listen to me.” Howland’s eyes glittered. “The state police are on the case. They came in late and have to catch up. They haven’t identified the body from the fire yet.”

“It was Hiram.”

“You and I believe it was Hiram, but the police have to go through procedures. In the meantime-”

Victoria interrupted. “Where’s Linda? I haven’t seen her all day. She hasn’t heard about our finding Hiram.”

“Victoria…”

“I will not leave my house, and that’s that.” Victoria turned to Do- jan and pointed imperiously to the cookroom. “Put my bag on the cookroom table, please, Dojan.”

Dojan slipped past Howland and padded through the kitchen.

“I don’t know where the hell Linda is, and I don’t care,” Howland snapped.

“Would you like a glass of sherry?” Victoria asked. “It’s been a trying day. If you’ll reach into that door in the buffet, you’ll find a decanter and-”

“No, thank you.” Howland’s cheekbones had a flush of red across them. He marched out of the dining room into the kitchen and stood by the entry door until Dojan joined him.

“I’ll talk to you outside,” he barked at Dojan.

Victoria had risen from her chair. “Don’t think you’re going to guard me, Howland, you and Dojan. I’m quite capable of calling 911, and the police station is right down the road. Besides, Elizabeth is here.”

Howland glanced through the dining room into the front hall, then turned toward the cookroom. “Where is she?”

“She’s out. She has a dinner date.”

“Kee-rist!” said Howland.

A blue car pulled into the driveway. “Here’s Linda now,” Victoria said. “She’ll be here. You may leave now.”

Linda stepped out of her car, a blue cardigan slung over her shoulders. “Hello, Mrs. Trumbull,” she called out. She looked curiously at the two tall men who had walked past her without a word.

Victoria turned and gestured to Howland, who was seated in his station wagon—part wave, part dismissal, and part a regal acknowledgment that she was in command.

Linda came into the house with both arms full of shopping bags and pulled the entry door shut with her foot. “Who are those strange men?”

“Are they still there?” Victoria filled the teakettle and set it on the stove. As Linda moved close to her, Victoria smelled patchouli and sneezed.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Trumbull. I wasn’t thinking.” She set her purchases down on the captain’s chair. “I’ll wash my face and wrists.”
She returned, scrubbed free of scent. Victoria asked, “Have you found your sister yet?”

“She’s camping in a field not far from here. The police told her where to find me.”

The teakettle whistled, and Victoria filled the teapot and carried it into the cookroom. Linda followed with the blue-flowered cups. “I thought I might see you at your uncle’s place today,” Victoria said.

“I haven’t been on the Island for at least ten years. I went shopping in Edgartown and had lunch in Oak Bluffs. I met someone I knew in Vineyard Haven.” She finished vaguely, “To tell you the truth, I didn’t want to see the old place.”

“Oh?” Victoria sipped her tea, narrowing her eyes in the steam. A cricket started to chirp. The sound seemed to come from all four corners of the room.

Linda spoke into the cricket-loud silence. “When we were children, we stayed with my uncle every summer.” The cricket abruptly stopped chirping. “Then, I don’t know, things changed.”

“They do that. Change.”

“You went there this morning?” Linda asked brightly, switching the subject.

Victoria nodded. “There’s not much left.”

“Is the barn still standing?”

“Yes. The fire was confined to the house. All that’s left is the chimney, charred wood, and bundles of papers.”

“Was that all?” Linda asked, eyes wide over the rim of her cup. “Everything gone?”

“They found mattress springs, door hinges, the kitchen stove, non- burnables. Also, they found the charred remains of his computer.”

“Was the computer salvageable?”

“I would guess not, but I don’t know much about computers. The outside was burned and the plastic fittings on back were melted.”

“My uncle wrote me notes at Christmas. Then when he got the computer, he’d e-mail practically every week. He used it for everything, correspondence, records, bills.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I suppose it had a copy of his will on it?”

Victoria said nothing.

“Did the police take it?”

Victoria held the teapot over Linda’s cup. “Would you like more tea?”

“Thank you. Did…”

Victoria stood suddenly. She didn’t want to discuss the computer. Nor did she want to discuss Burkhardt’s will. As if she had remembered something, she said, “I’ve got to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.” She went into the dining room and dialed Howland. She knew he hadn’t had time to get home yet, but she wanted to stall long enough to think. She waited until his answering machine came on, said the first thing she could think of into the phone, and hung up.

She returned to Linda. “No answer. I’ll try later.”

“Did they find anything else at my uncle’s?” Linda asked. “Evidence of arson or something?”

Victoria toyed with her cup. “I’m afraid they did find something.”

“Oh? What did they find?”

“The remains of a body.”

The color suddenly washed out of Linda’s face, like a shade pulled down. She turned ash-gray. “Someone died in the fire? That’s…that’s horrible. That’s awful.” She stood up, knocked over her teacup, which skidded across the table, fell to the floor, and broke. She set both hands flat on the table and hung her head down.

C
HAPTER
21

Victoria, astonished, thought that Linda might faint. She had been so cool about her uncle’s death and the fire. She claimed she had gone shopping all day, and certainly she had brought back enough plastic bags with labels from fancy stores. Victoria started to get up. She would pour some ammonia on a damp facecloth and hold it under Linda’s nose, that was it.

“Who was it?” Linda said softly, “Do they know?”

Victoria sat down again and handed Linda a couple of paper napkins. “Before the police can identify the body, they have to check dental records.”

Linda mopped at the sodden tablecloth. Her color had returned slightly, but her face was still gray.

“When will they know?” she asked.

“I have no idea. Don’t worry about the tablecloth. It was time for it to go into the wash anyway.”

“The computer. I suppose it’s mine now?”

“Did your uncle leave his property to you?”

“He said he was going to.”

“Someone has to find his will.”

“The property is mine now.”

Victoria half-closed her eyes. “I don’t believe anyone knows, at this time, whether he willed it to you or to your sister or to both of you.” Victoria took the soggy napkins and dropped them into the trash. McCavity, who was curled up in the wastebasket, stuck his head up and yowled.

“I’m sorry, Cavvy, I didn’t see you,” Victoria said to the cat. She looked back at Linda. “Or perhaps he left the property to a third party.”

“He left it to me. I know he left it to me.”

“I can’t help you.” Victoria brushed crumbs off the tablecloth into her hand and dropped them in her saucer. “You should go to your uncle’s place to see what’s left of it. There may be some small thing you can salvage.”

“I don’t want to see what’s left of the house.” Linda hid her face in her hands.

Victoria gazed at her.

“I’m glad it’s gone,” Linda said.

“What happened to make you feel this way?”

Linda wrapped her hands around her stomach and rocked back and forth in her chair. “I’m sorry I broke your cup, Mrs. Trumbull. It was a lovely old cup.”

“It was just a cup. You were about to tell me something.”

“Nothing.” Linda stood up. “Nothing at all.”

A chickadee landed on the bird feeder, snatched a seed, and flitted off.

“Where’s Elizabeth?” Linda asked abruptly.

“She’s still at work. She has a dinner and theater date tonight, and will probably be home late.”

“I wonder what happened to Uncle Jube’s computer.” Linda turned to watch a finch that had landed on the feeder. The feeder swung gently.

“Do you have plans for this evening?” Victoria asked.

“I was going to visit someone I know. Maybe I’ll go to my uncle’s before it gets dark. I probably ought to look at the old place. I’ll pick up a sandwich somewhere.” She cleared the remains of the tea things from the table. “I’m sorry about your cup. I’ll see if I can find one like it in an antique shop.”

“Please, don’t worry about the cup.”

“Will you be okay here by yourself? I didn’t even think.”

“Of course,” Victoria said.

Victoria fed McCavity and made herself an omelet. She worked on the sestina she had started earlier while she nibbled at the omelet. McCavity hopped up into her lap. When she finished supper, she cleared her dishes and put away the leftover food. She was tired. She let McCavity out, and went to bed early. Her bedroom was the small
west room on the second floor. She read for a while before she turned out her light. Her usual bedtime was close to midnight. It wasn’t nine o’clock yet. She seldom had trouble falling asleep, no matter when she went to bed, but tonight she felt restless. Her legs itched. Scratching didn’t help. The familiar creaks and moans of her old house seemed different somehow.

She thought about Elizabeth and her date, the reporter from the Cape Cod paper, a nice young man. She had a brief twinge, not of envy, but of wishing they’d invited her to go to the play with them. She loved theater. As a girl, she’d dreamed of becoming an actress. Crickets chirped in the west meadow. She heard the eerie, almost human, cry of an owl. The night wind whispered through the small screen that held the window open. She hadn’t been troubled by mosquitoes this year. The summer had been quite dry, and her garden had suffered. She hadn’t even felt like weeding, it had been so dry. Something banged downstairs, and she tried to identify what might have caused the noise. A shutter thumping against the front of the house? There didn’t seem to be enough wind for that. One of the kitchen doors slamming? She tried to think which one it might be. Each had its own sound.

She saw, for the first time, a strange light on the ceiling, almost the shape of a tiny footprint. Was there a light on in the attic that was shining into the room? How could it, unless there was a hole in the ceiling? And a light on in the attic. Maybe it was a reflected streetlight. But the closest streetlight was at the firehouse a half mile away. Then she realized with relief—and realized that it had worried her— that the thing on the ceiling was a plastic phosphorescent footprint that her great-grandson had stuck up there when he stayed in her room earlier this summer. She laughed out loud.

She heard the banging noise again. What was causing that? She put her hand up to her neck where she felt something pressing against her. It was the shell necklace Bernice Minnowfish had put around her neck, and she’d forgotten all about it. She started to take it off and then decided not to. She rubbed the itch on her legs. Perhaps she should get up and put lotion on them. Her skin was probably dry. Maybe if she took an aspirin the itch would go away. That meant getting up and going downstairs, and that seemed like too
much trouble. If she went downstairs, she could heat up a glass of milk. Then she probably wouldn’t need to take an aspirin, and she could get the hand lotion from the bathroom. She needed to use the toilet, anyway. She could probably last until morning, but that was another reason for going downstairs. While she was downstairs, she would put the necklace in the box she kept for great-grandchildren’s play jewels. She heard the banging noise again, and she swung her feet out of bed. She would find out what that noise was.

“Come in and meet my grandmother, Chuck. She’ll want to hear all about the play.” Elizabeth and her date had returned around eleven.

“Is she still up?” Chuck looked around the brightly lighted kitchen. “I don’t want to disturb her.”

“She doesn’t usually go to bed until late,” Elizabeth said. “She wouldn’t leave all these lights on. She must be upstairs. You’re welcome to look around.” Elizabeth took the stairs two at a time. “Gram? It’s me. I’m home.”

There was no answer.

Elizabeth knocked on the side of the open door to her grandmother’s room and went in. The light on the table next to the bed was on, and the bedclothes were thrown back as if her grandmother had been in bed. Her book was open and facedown on the table. Her clothes, the ones Elizabeth remembered seeing her wear today, were draped over the back of the rocking chair in her bedroom. Elizabeth’s stomach had an awful prickling feeling.