Authors: Cynthia Riggs

Shooting Star (19 page)

BOOK: Shooting Star

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“What the hell … ?” Howland swiveled around to get a better look at the Toyota that had slowed after it passed them. “That looks like Red Callaghan, the jailhouse chef.”

“Be careful,” said Victoria, bracing her hand against the dashboard again.

Howland moved back into the right lane. “Looked just like him.”

Victoria sat up straight. “Don’t you think we should follow that car?”

“We’ve got to find out what’s happening at your house.”

“But if it is the chef, shouldn’t we go after him?”

“No.”

Neither of them spoke again until they turned into Victoria’s drive.

The police car Alison had borrowed from Sergeant Smalley was parked under the Norway maple next to a blue pickup that smelled of fish.

Alison came to the kitchen door and greeted them. “Father and son are reunited.”

“How is he?” Howland asked.

“He’s on the couch in the library, sleeping now,” said Alison. “He feels awful, hot and achy. His father is sitting with him, reading the paper.”

“Do we need to call the doctor?” Howland asked.

Alison drew herself up to her full height. “I
am
a doctor, after all, Mr. Atherton. More than qualified to deal with chicken pox, thank you. Everything is under control.”

“What the hell’s the matter with everyone?” Howland snapped. “Someone call Smalley.”

“I’ve notified Sergeant Smalley. He should be here any minute.” Alison gave Howland a tight smile. “He’s taking me to dinner at Le Grenier, then to the boat.”

“On his expense account, I suppose,” Howland said. He suddenly seemed to take in what she’d said. “You’re leaving?”

“I’m sure Mrs. Trumbull has dealt with chicken pox patients in the past.”

“Is that the phone?” Victoria brushed past Howland to answer.

“I’ll get it,” said Alison. She came out a few minutes later, looking annoyed. “John’s had to cancel our dinner date. A problem’s come up at the police barracks.”

“May I take you to dinner in his place?” asked Howland.

Alison looked at her watch.

“Go ahead,” said Victoria. “I’ll tend the patient. Besides, Tim Eldredge and Junior Norton plan to play an all-night poker game here tonight.”

“Oh?” said Howland.
“Two
cops?”

“Tim has invited Dawn Haines,” said Victoria. “I think he’s finally noticed her.”

“Maybe I’ll join them after I take Alison to the ferry. But I’d like to see Teddy first.”

“You know where the library is,” said Victoria.

Teddy was sleeping on the sofa, a Victorian concoction with a carved wooden back depicting roses. Tucked among the rose leaves was a perfectly carved insect that looked remarkably like a Japanese beetle.

Jefferson Vanderhoop sat next to Teddy’s bed, reading the sports section of
The Boston Globe.
He looked up and grinned as Howland entered the room.

“How about those Sox, hey?” Vanderhoop said.

“I don’t follow football,” said Howland.

Vanderhoop stared at him and stopped chewing whatever he had in his mouth.

“Your son okay?” asked Howland.

“Red Sox,” said Vanderhoop, starting to chew again.

“He okay?”

“I guess. You ever have chicken pox?”

“I have no idea.”

“If you haven’t had chicken pox, you better stay away from my kid. You don’t want to catch it. Complications like scars, shingles, arthritis, joint disease. Can sterilize you.”

Vanderhoop returned to the sports pages, and Howland backed out of the room and headed for the kitchen.

“Would you like some wine to take with you?” asked Victoria, reaching into the refrigerator. She held up a three-quarters-full bottle.

Howland didn’t respond. Instead, he asked Alison, “Will contracting chicken pox as an adult cause sterility?”

“Rarely,” said Alison. “The disease is worse for adults, though. More adults than children die of chicken pox.”

“Wine?” asked Victoria still holding the bottle.

“Thanks, Victoria,” said Howland. “I’ll replace it.” He took the bottle from her.

Alison looked puzzled. “To a French restaurant?”

Howland checked the label. “Australian wine at that. Le Grenier is in Vineyard Haven.”

“And … ?”

“Vineyard Haven is dry,” Howland explained. “Don’t try to make sense out of Island regulations. You can buy wine in Oak Bluffs or Edgartown, and restaurants in the four dry towns will serve you.” He shrugged. “They just can’t sell it to you.”

“Is Teddy still asleep?” Victoria asked.

Howland nodded. “Have you had chicken pox, Victoria?”

“Of course. Everyone’s had it. Haven’t you?”

“I was coddled as a kid. I didn’t catch anything.”

“Highly contagious,” said Alison. “Ten-day incubation.”

After Howland and Alison left for the restaurant, Victoria checked on Teddy, who was sleeping. His father looked up and grinned. “So the kid asked for me, eh?”

“According to Dr. McAlistair. How do you feel about dogs?”

“Teddy’s always wanted one, but the wife wouldn’t hear of it. Too messy.”

“Is Teddy responsible enough to take care of a dog?”

“Teddy’s got more sense than me. You got some dog in mind?”

“I don’t know,” said Victoria, and left the library.

“Sure, I’ll be happy to release Sandy to you, Victoria,” said Doc Atkins when Victoria reached him at the animal clinic. “He’s as good as new. Misses the boss, of course. You’d expect that. Want me to deliver him?”

“Would you bring some dog food with you?”

“Dog food, a couple of toys, and a bed. How’s the boy?”

“He’s come down with chicken pox.”

The vet laughed. “Sandy’s what the doctor ordered, then. I’ll be there in a half-hour. You still got some of that Australian wine around?”

While she waited, Victoria rummaged around in the closet, found an unopened bottle of the same wine she’d sent off with Howland and Alison, and put it in the refrigerator.

As she was setting wine glasses and crackers and cheese on a tray, an ambulance pulled up in front of the kitchen door, red lights rotating. The siren whooped a couple of times. Victoria hustled out to see what had happened. Doc Atkins emerged from the driver’s side, grinning.

“Don’t get to use the siren and lights often.” He opened the back door of the ambulance and lifted out a dog that in no way resembled the filthy creature Victoria and Joanie had taken to the clinic. He was a pale golden tan with fluffy fur. His tongue hung out as though he was smiling. His eyes were bright.

“Sandy?” asked Victoria.

“A couple of days can make a difference. Let’s see the patient.” Doc Atkins carried the dog into the library.

Jefferson Vanderhoop stood up and set the newspaper on the chair. “That was quick.”

Sandy barked. Teddy opened his eyes. Doc Atkins set the dog down, and Sandy bounced over to Teddy and started licking his face. Teddy grinned. “Sandy, hey Sandy, old buddy.”

Vanderhoop looked from the doc to Victoria to his son and back at the doc.

“Can I keep him, Dad? Please, Dad?”

Vanderhoop glanced at Victoria’s face before he said, “Damn right, kid.”

“Care to join us in a glass of wine, Mr. Vanderhoop?”

“Don’t mind if I do. Name’s Jefferson.”

Le Grenier was on the second floor of a building only a short walk from the ferry. Chef-owner Jean Dupon escorted Alison and Howland to a table by the window, where they could look out through green leaves to the street below. He examined the wine label, shrugged, and took the partially full bottle to chill. Looking down on Main Street, it was as though they were in a tree house, a secret hideaway. Alison ordered tuna. Howland ordered swordfish.

“Did Smalley say what the problem was at the police barracks?” Howland asked, while they were waiting to be served.

“He said something fishy was going on.”

While they were eating, they talked about the theater, their jobs, life on the Island, Alison’s work in Washington.

Chef Dupon returned to their table. “Monsieur Atherton, you naughty man.” He shook a finger at Howland, and Alison looked up with concern. “Since you jail my sous-chef, business is off.”

“Chef Callaghan?” Alison asked. “The chef at the county jail?
French
chef?”

“The cooking is French. The chef is not.” Chef Dupon bowed and left.

Alison talked to Howland about her lost son, Douglas, for the first time in years. Teddy’s sudden appearance had opened some door she’d slammed shut a long time ago. She thought of Teddy’s swollen eyes and the spots that weren’t itching, yet.

“Teddy cried for his dad,” she said. “Not his mother.”

“I got the impression that his father was kind of rough.”

“He’s the one Teddy called for. He’s certainly not afraid of his father. Have you any idea who the mother’s boyfriend is? Teddy’s afraid of him.”

Smalley was driving toward the county jail along the stretch of beach between Oak Bluffs and Edgartown when his cell phone rang. He pulled over to the side of the road.

“Smalley, here.”

“A shooting at the playhouse,” said the nine-one-one operator.

“Goddamned shit,” said Smalley, and made a U-turn across summer traffic on Beach Road.

CHAPTER 29

Alison and Howland had almost finished their main course when they heard sirens—first one, then another—coming toward them on Main Street. The vehicles turned off a block or two before reaching the restaurant.

“Police?” asked Alison.

“Police, fire, or the town ambulance. Can’t tell. We don’t hear many sirens on the Island.”

They were still speculating on what the sirens meant when Alison said, “There goes my cell phone.”

“No symphonic phrase or catchy tune?”

“Vibration mode.” She smiled, took the phone from her jacket pocket, and looked at the display. “I’ve got to call back.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll take the phone outside.”

When she returned, Howland said, “Serious?”

“It was John Smalley.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“The bride of Frankenstein has been shot.”

“Dead?”

“She’s at the hospital, waiting to be airlifted to Boston.”

“Dearborn’s wife?”

“I assume that’s who it is.”

Howland raised his hand, and the waitress came over. “We’ll skip dessert. My check, please.”

“Was everything all right?”

Alison kissed her fingers.
“C’est magnifique,”
she said.

Tim Eldredge had just walked into Victoria’s kitchen, following Dawn Haines. He was freshly showered and shaved and was wearing a clean uniform.

“You look trim,” Victoria told him.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Eldredge. “Sergeant Smalley gave me a couple hours off this afternoon.”

“You clean up pretty good,” observed Vanderhoop. “You were a mess when I saw you on my boat.”

Jefferson Vanderhoop, Victoria, and Doc Atkins were sitting at the kitchen table with what was left of the bottle of wine and a plate with a few cracker crumbs. Teddy was sleeping, his dog curled up next to him on the library sofa.

The phone rang and Victoria stepped into the cookroom to answer.

“Sergeant Smalley, here, Mrs. Trumbull. Let me talk to Tim Eldredge.”

Tim set down his jug of cranberry juice and a six-pack of microwave popcorn on Victoria’s countertop.

“No beer?” Victoria asked as she handed him the phone.

“On duty.” Tim took the phone. “Eldredge.” He suddenly tensed. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

“Now what?” said Victoria.

“Mrs. Hill’s been shot.”

“The next in order of appearance,” said Dawn. Her face paled. “Rebecca Hill. The bride of Frankenstein.”

“Shot dead?” asked Teddy’s father.

“She was taken to the hospital, sir,” answered Tim. “Sergeant Smalley’s ordered me to get to the theater, right away. Sorry, Dawn. I’ll call a cab for you.”

“I can give Dawn a lift in the ambulance,” said Doc Atkins.

“If you don’t mind a little fish smell, how about a ride in my truck,” countered Teddy’s father.

“I think I’d rather stay with Mrs. Trumbull, if that’s okay, Mrs. T?”

“There’s plenty of room,” said Victoria. “I hope you’ve had chicken pox.”

“The theater’s around the corner and up a couple of blocks,” said Howland. “We’ll get there faster by walking than by driving.”

Alison kept up with Howland’s long strides. “What on earth is going on?”

“Hate to think Bruce Duncan might be right about the characters being killed off in order of appearance.”

“If true, Howland, we’re dealing with a psycho. Two murders, a third attempt, and a frightened boy. This is starting to fit the profile of a serial killer. As soon as he learns that Teddy is at Victoria’s …”

“I’m thinking the same thing. Come on.” They walked faster.

“You’d better go directly to Victoria’s,” Alison said.

“Smalley asked me to check ever some paperwork at the theater,” said Howland. “Tim Eldredge and Junior Norton are with Victoria. I’ll talk to Smalley. Find out what the hell happened, then go on to Victoria’s. Join me there later.”

They turned right onto Church Street. Alison checked her watch.

“Did Smalley say who did the shooting?” Howland asked.

“He didn’t give me any information at all, beyond the fact that they’re flying Becca to Boston.”

A crowd had gathered in front of the theater. The West Tisbury police Bronco was there and so was a Tisbury police cruiser. Blue and red lights flashed on spectators’ faces. Katie Bowen, a reporter for
The Island Enquirer,
was talking to Junior Norton.

Howland stopped. “What in hell is Junior doing here?” He dashed across the street.

Alison followed. “At least Tim Eldredge is still at Victoria’s.”

“No, he’s not!” Howland pointed to a state police car pulling up behind the Bronco, blue lights rotating, the same vehicle that
had been parked under Victoria’s maple tree earlier. Tim Eldredge got out of the driver’s side and hitched up his belt.

“What in hell are you doing here?” Howland shouted.

“Sergeant Smalley ordered me to haul ass here, sir.”

Howland caught up with him and grabbed the front of Tim’s clean uniform shirt. “Who’s with Victoria and the boy?”

“Dawn is. And the boy’s father. Sir.” Tim lifted his chin from the collar that was getting tighter in Howland’s grip.

“Where’s Teddy’s mother?”

“Nobody knows, sir.”

“Damn!” Howland released his hold.

Tim stood up straight and smoothed his shirtfront. “Sir, I’ve got to report to Sergeant Smalley immediately.”

Alison said, “Howland, you’d better haul ass to Victoria’s. You have your cell phone?”

They exchanged numbers, and Howland took off at a run to get back to his car, parked on Main Street.

Smalley climbed onto the stage and faced the audience, the cast, and the crew. He’d closed the doors as soon as he got there, and now Tim Eldredge and Junior Norton were keeping people from leaving. Who knew how many people had left before he’d arrived.

“Sorry to detain you, folks, but as I’m sure you know by now, there’s been an accident,” he said, when the audience had stilled. “Becca Hill, who was playing the part of the bride of Frankenstein, was injured and is being airlifted to Boston.” Smalley was explaining that he would need to talk to each one of them, when his cell phone rang. “Excuse me, folks.” He turned his back to the gathering. “Smalley, here.”

“Sergeant, we’ve been waiting for you at the jail for almost an hour.”

The murmuring of voices behind him started up again.

“Sorry, sheriff. Got sidetracked. There’s been a shooting at the theater. Totally slipped my mind to call you.”

“Fatality?”

“Not yet. They airlifted her to Boston.”

“Further development about the county vehicle, Sergeant. Ira Bodman called from his tractor to report the van is stopped by the side of the road, engine running, driver asleep.”

“Asleep
? What about the cleanup crew?”

“Missing.”

“All three?”

“Roger.”

“Shit,” said Smalley.

“Ira’s low on fuel and can’t stay with the van.”

“Tell him to shut the goddamned engine down and wait.”

“He’s headed for Morning Glory Farm on his tractor. Says he can’t shut the tractor down because he won’t be able to start it up again.”

“For Christ’s sake, send someone from your end. I’m dealing with a hundred-fifty restless people.”

“Sorry, Sergeant. I’m dealing with three prison escapees, four restless inmates, and what looks like a drugged driver. On the
state road.”

Smalley sighed. “Okay. I’ll put Eldredge in charge, and get there as soon as I can. What’s the location of the vehicle?”

“At the top of the swale right around Jimmy Green’s, you know, where the heath hen …”

“I know where it is.”

Alison was starting up the theater’s steep stairs when she encountered Smalley, coming down.

“You’re not leaving?”

“Three prisoners escaped from a work detail on the West Tisbury-Edgartown Road. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“What can I do to help?” Alison looked up at him.

“I’ve put Tim Eldredge in charge. He and Junior Norton will be taking statements from the cast. Mind helping out with that?”

“You realize that leaves Victoria Trumbull and the boy unguarded, don’t you?”

“I have no choice.” He was halfway down the stairs and shifted uneasily. “Explain to the audience what the procedure is, what they can expect. You know the drill.”

“And the shooting?” asked Alison.

“Dearborn Hill went to the hospital in the ambulance with his wife.”

“How is she?”

“No one’s said, at this point.” He shrugged.

“John, shut down the play immediately.”

“I’ve already done so.” Smalley rubbed his palm against his chin, and Alison heard the slight scratch of evening whiskers.

“Sorry about the canceled dinner date.”

Alison clutched the stair railing. “Not a problem. Howland filled in for you.”

Smalley grunted. “I hate to leave you with this mess.”

“It’s okay, John. If I can cope with chicken pox, I can cope with this.”

BOOK: Shooting Star

6.29Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub