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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

Shooting Star (22 page)

BOOK: Shooting Star
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As George Byron and Roderick talked quietly near the door, Victoria overheard George say, “Planning to read comic books in the costume barn, Cuz?” He put his fingertips to his lips, his head to one side, and lisped,
“Powerpuff Girls
?
”
“Costume barn?” Victoria interrupted.
George turned to her. “You know, the barn behind my mother’s house where she stores theater costumes?” George grinned. “I was planning to stay in the barn, but there was this hideout all set up, padlock on the door, a stock of junk food, bed made, reading light, and
comic books.
Turns out it was
his
idea.” He gestured to Roderick. “Hiding from Aunt Becca?”
Roderick groaned. “Another failure.”
Howland, holding Sandy in one arm, closed his cell phone with his unoccupied hand. Sandy peered over Howland’s shoulder at Roderick and growled. Howland murmured something to the dog, who reached up and licked his ear.
Teddy called out from the library, “Sandy?” and the dog wriggled out of Howland’s arm, gave a last growl at Roderick, and raced to his new master.
Victoria suddenly put everything together.
“Roderick, you went to Peg’s house the night of dress rehearsal. Why?”
“Stupid.” He shook his head. “A stupid, stupid idea.”
“What
was
the idea?” Victoria asked gently.
Bruce Duncan slopped more witch hazel on Roderick’s wounds and handed the almost empty bottle and rag to Lennie. “Put this back where you found it.”
“Whatever you say, asshole.”
Howland crossed his arms and leaned against the wall next to the clock.
Jefferson Vanderhoop, who’d been tending his boy, said, “Mind if I feed the kid some juice, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“Help yourself.”
He opened the refrigerator, poured orange juice into a glass, and took it into the library, where Teddy was sitting up, arms around his dog.
Another car pulled up under the maple tree next to Bruce Duncan’s van. Lennie, on his way back from the bathroom, peered out of the window. “You sure know how to throw a party, Mrs. T.”
Victoria looked up as footsteps pattered up the stone steps of the entry, and Teddy’s mother appeared at the door. Amanda’s dark hair was windblown and her usually pressed slacks were wrinkled.
“Teddy?” she said. “Have they found him?”
“Mommy!” Teddy called out.
“Darling!” Without acknowledging the six people present, one cringing on the floor, another kneeling next to him, Amanda rushed into the library. Sandy growled.
Victoria heard loud voices from the library.
Teddy’s father asked, “Where’s the boyfriend?”
Teddy’s mother answered, “Gone.”
“I’ve got a dog, Mommy!”
“Honey, you’re covered with spots!”
“I’ve got chicken pox, Mommy!”
Teddy’s mother said, “You know you can’t have a dog, honey.”
Teddy’s father said, “The hell he can’t.”
Victoria smiled to herself and turned back to Roderick. “What was your idea?” she said again. “Did you intend to kidnap Teddy for some reason? Hide him in the costume barn? Was that it?”
Roderick nodded miserably.
“Why, Roderick? Why?”
“Stupid idea,” Roderick mumbled again.
“Yes it was, but what were you thinking?”
He winced as Bruce Duncan rolled his pant legs back down over his wounds.
“Roderick?” prompted Victoria.
“Howland got the role of the monster, the part I wanted.”
“You were welcome to it from the first,” said Howland.
“What does kidnapping Teddy have to do with playing the monster?” Victoria asked.
Roderick put his head down on his knees. “Everyone would be worried about Teddy, and then I’d find him, and be a hero, and they’d let me play the monster.”
“Jeezus Christ.” Howland straightened and bumped his head on the wall clock.
“Exactly what happened that night?” Victoria asked.
Bruce Duncan got to his feet, glanced at the clock, and said, “I don’t need to hear any more. Good job, trapping the killer, Mrs. Trumbull. Congratulations.”
“I think you need to hear the rest,” said Victoria, holding up her hand. “Howland, make sure no one leaves.”
“Here comes a police car,” said George, looking out of the kitchen window. “Bronco.” Blue and white lights flashed across the kitchen walls.
Lennie peered out at the flashing lights and said to Roderick, “Now your car’s blocking two cars, sonny. One’s the cops.”
“Never mind,” said Victoria. “Roderick?”
“I fixed up the costume barn for Teddy. Nice snacks, my own comic books …”
“Tomb Raider
?” said George.
“Daredevil
? I believe I mentioned
Powerpuff Girls
? Hee hee!”
Roderick ignored his cousin George. “ … a good reading light. Teddy wasn’t going to be there long.”
“He’d certainly recognize you,” Victoria said.
“No, no. I was going to blindfold him. Anyway, he didn’t know me. I was just the understudy.”
“And?” Victoria sighed. She’d been standing long enough. She pulled out one of the gray chairs and sat, still holding her grandfather’s cane.
“I knew all his lines.” He nodded at Howland. “I looked more like the monster than Howland Atherton did.”
“That’s for sure,” muttered Howland.
Roderick continued. “Before Peg and Teddy left the theater at the end of Act One, I disguised myself.”
“Can’t imagine how,” said Bruce Duncan.
“Be quiet, Bruce,” said Victoria.
“I disguised myself and went into her house and took out all the fuses in the fuse box in her cellar and hid them.”
“Why?”
“I figured she would have to go down to the cellar, and it would take her a lot of time to find and replace the fuses. That would give me time to capture Teddy. I didn’t know he was going to stop at his own house first. Stupid, stupid.”
“Right,” said Bruce Duncan.
“Then Peg came home,” Victoria continued, “the lights didn’t work, and what happened next?”
“I asked her where Teddy was. She started to scream, and I put my hand over her mouth. I didn’t mean to kill her.”
Bruce Duncan was about to say something, but Victoria held up her hand. “Let him talk, Bruce.” She turned back to Roderick. “Then what?”
“I panicked. I ran out of the house to my car. It was parked at the end of the Job’s Neck Road.”
“How did you hurt your leg?”
“I tripped over a rock in the dark.”
“When did you run into Sandy?”
“When I first got to Peg’s. Sandy came out to greet me, tail wagging and all …” He paused.
“Yes?” said Victoria.
“I didn’t mean to hurt the dog. I tripped over him, and then when I tried to pat him, tell him I was sorry, I fell over my feet and landed on him by mistake. I guess I hurt him bad. He ran off, yelping.”
“Monster!” hissed Bruce Duncan.
The blue and white lights of the police vehicle continued to flash across Victoria’s kitchen walls, and Casey, in her summer uniform, white shirt with a gold and blue patch on the sleeve, marched up to the door. Howland stepped aside. Casey glanced at the scene before her, one hand on the butt of her gun, and waited.
Victoria nodded to the chief, and continued to question Roderick. “You left Peg lying on the floor? You didn’t check her pulse or breathing?”
“I panicked,” said Roderick.
“You didn’t call nine-one-one?”
“I didn’t think of it. I drove to Island Java and drank a couple of cups of coffee.”
“Exactly what you needed,” said Lennie, pouring himself another glass of Victoria’s rum. “Coffee nerves.”
Casey glanced around the room at the assemblage, then back at Victoria with a glint of admiration.
“Now then, what about Bob Scott?” Victoria asked. “You didn’t know your own strength, did you?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to kill him, either.”
“The stage crew carried him off, but you knew he’d recovered enough to sit on the couch, didn’t you?”
“And died,” said Roderick, looking with dismay at his great hands.
Victoria folded her own hands over the gold knob of the cane. “I understand your aunt was a target tonight.”
“I didn’t shoot Aunt Becca. I know I didn’t. I was angry with her, but I would never have killed her. I wouldn’t have killed anyone. I didn’t mean to kill anyone. If I weren’t so, so …”
“Atta boy!” said Lennie. “Cheers!” He held up his glass.
“Is there anything else you can tell us, Roderick?”
He put his head down on his knees. “I’m sorry.”
Victoria turned to Bruce Duncan. “Where did you get the hemlock that killed Bob Scott?”
Bruce scrambled to his feet. “What? What?”
“The toxicology lab in Boston found hemlock in Robert Scott’s stomach, and hemlock in the cup you offered him, a refreshing drink after he’d been almost strangled to death in his scene.”
“Don’t look at
me
like that.” Duncan pointed to Roderick, who was cowering on the floor. “There’s your killer. Thought nothing of snuffing out the lives of five hundred …”
“Goldfish,” said Howland. “We know all about that. Go on, Victoria.”
“Hemlock was the poison the Greeks used to kill Socrates. They considered hemlock a humane death. It grows almost everywhere on the Island. Where did you find it, Bruce?”
“You’re wrong, totally wrong. I didn’t offer him any drink.”
“How did your fingerprints get on the plastic cup?”
“The cleaning woman was supposed to throw that away,” said Bruce Duncan. “She’s supposed to pick up trash. She did. I’m sure she did. Scott would never have taken that drink from me if I’d been wearing gloves.”
Bruce Duncan stared at Victoria in horror, as though he’d suddenly realized what he’d confessed, and then darted towards the door. Casey blocked it.
“Cuff him!” said Victoria.
Howland closed up his cell phone and headed toward one of the kitchen chairs. “Smalley’s on his way here, Casey. Two of the escaped convicts gave themselves up. The third got away.”
“Which one?” Casey asked.
“Chef Red Callaghan.” Howland sat down with a sigh. “The chef apparently spiked the driver’s lemonade, and after the driver passed out, hitched a ride with a woman in a blue Toyota. I spotted him, and Victoria tried to get me to follow the car.” He winced. “I refused. A mistake.”
Victoria, from her seat at the table, opened and closed her hands over the knob of her grandfather’s cane and said nothing.
“What was the chef in for, Howland? Drugs?” Casey asked.
“Yes.”
“You think he got off Island?”
“Seems certain,” said Howland. “The state police picked up his trail to the Oak Bluffs ferry terminal. The ticket seller recalled seeing a bald man with big mustache pick up a schedule, but she didn’t remember his buying a ticket.”
Casey moved her hand off the gun butt. “They didn’t apprehend him when the ferry docked?”
“No one answering that description got off at Woods Hole. No single man, bald, with mustache. Families, couples, kids.”
Victoria tapped the floor with the cane. Everyone turned to her. “He had an accomplice,” she said. “Someone helped him with the disguise. A girlfriend …” she stopped. “I never thought to ask Teddy what his mother’s boyfriend looks like.”
“His mother’s in the library now with Teddy,” said Casey.
“Let the state police handle her.” Victoria glanced at Casey, who ignored her, and went to the library where Teddy’s mother was with her son.
Bruce Duncan, his hands cuffed behind him, continued to protest. “You’ve got the wrong man! This is a horrible mistake! I’ll sue!”
Lennie cackled.
Casey returned. “Teddy says his mother’s boyfriend is bald with a big red mustache. His mother doesn’t say anything.”
“Go on, Victoria,” said Howland. “Back to how you fingered Bruce Duncan.”
“All the actors knew that Peg was trying to discourage Bruce tactfully. Apparently, he was obsessed with her.”
“That’s simply not true,” shouted Bruce. “She led me on, making me think she cared for me.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Lennie, lifting his glass to Victoria.
“I can only surmise what happened. Bruce followed her the night of dress rehearsal, hoping to glimpse her, but the lights in her house were out.”
Roderick, still huddled on the floor, groaned.
Bruce turned away from him with a look of disgust. “I went there to help her,” he said. “She did need help. My help, after that …” he turned on Roderick and didn’t finish.
Victoria watched him for a moment before she continued. “We know, according to Teddy, that Peg screamed. I can only guess that you, Bruce, perhaps going to her help, as you said, saw a man leave the house. Am I right?”
“Yes,” said Bruce.
“A large man you thought was Roderick because of his size. You rushed to Peg’s aid …”
Duncan nodded. “That much is true. But she was already dead.” He nodded at Roderick.
Roderick groaned.
Victoria went on. “Peg was on the floor, wasn’t she? Alive, but incoherent. Did she whisper something to you?”
“‘Roderick.’ She whispered, ‘Roderick tried to kill me.’”
Roderick nodded miserably.
Howland and Casey exchanged glances.
“I can understand how upset the scene must have made you,” Victoria said. “Did you think Roderick had molested her?”
“Yes. That was it.”
“Perhaps you thought she had cooperated with Roderick? That had to have hurt your feelings.”
“You understand, Mrs. Trumbull, don’t you. She teased me, sneered at me behind my back, then made out with that clown.”
“No, no, no,” said Roderick, shaking his head. “No, no!”
Lennie chortled. George turned his back on the others, went into the cookroom, and sat down. The rest stood silently.
Victoria waited a moment, then continued. “You put your hands around Peg’s neck and shook her, tried to get her to confess to you, was that it? Had she recovered enough so she could talk?”
“She told me Roderick tried to kill her.”
Howland shifted position slightly.
“You must have thought she was lying to you, that Roderick was having an affair with her?”
“No!” shouted Roderick.
“It was obvious,” said Duncan, glaring at the people standing and sitting around him. “Mrs. Trumbull seems to be the only one here who understands my situation.”
“Roderick pressed his gloved hand against Peg’s mouth and nose. We know that. But it was you who put your hands around her neck and squeezed life out of her.”
“I was trying to get her to talk to me,” said Duncan.
“Why did you throw her down the cellar stairs?”
Duncan turned. “I didn’t want them to find her right away.”
“And Roderick, foolish Roderick, played right into your hands, didn’t he?”
“He
is
foolish.” Duncan looked down at the floor.
“Why were you after Teddy?” Victoria asked.
“I heard Peg scream, ‘Run, Teddy, run!’ I thought Teddy had seen me.”
“Before you even went into Peg’s house? I would guess that Roderick put his hand over her mouth, then lifted it enough so she could tell him where Teddy was, and that’s when she screamed. Teddy never saw you. But you went into his house looking for him?”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Bruce said. “When I didn’t find him in his house, I started going through the desk looking for people he might have run to.”
“Teddy did see you, when he climbed the tree. But from where he was sitting, he could see you only from the waist down.” Victoria tapped the cane on the floor. “When he broke the branch, you ran out the back door and tripped over his toy box.”
“Wonder I didn’t break a leg, falling down the stairs. Kid shouldn’t have left it there.”
Victoria smiled for the first time. “That’s what his mother kept telling him. Teddy hid because he was frightened and didn’t feel well,” Victoria continued. “He thought the intruder was his mother’s boyfriend. Teddy didn’t want the boyfriend to find him. He had no idea Chef Callaghan was locked up in jail.”
“Not securely enough, apparently,” said Howland. “I recommended him for the road-work detail.”
“Teddy was coming down with chicken pox and he wanted a safe place to rest.” Victoria smiled again. “Here.”
“Peace and quiet,” said Lennie, finishing the last of his rum and holding the glass up the the light as if more might miraculously appear.
“What about Bob Scott’s death?” Casey asked. “That exchange of bullets in the stage gun? The attempt on Becca’s life?”
Roderick was still on the floor, head on his knees.
Victoria said, “Roderick removed what he thought were blanks and substituted bullets in the stage gun. Right, Roderick? The blanks actually were real bullets.”
He grunted.
“We don’t know who substituted the toy gun with the gag flag for the stage gun.”
George, in the cookroom, raised a hand. “Guilty.”
“Fortunate that you did,” said Victoria. “I’m curious to know where you found a joke item like that.”
“Mary at Shirley’s Hardware.”
“That explains it.” Victoria turned back to Duncan, who was rubbing one foot on the leg of his jeans, having trouble balancing himself with his hands shackled. “Bruce, you took out the blanks and substituted real bullets, didn’t you?”
Duncan said nothing.
“You hoped we’d think a serial killer was at work, that we’d never suspect you because you were the one who alluded to a serial killer. That’s why you killed Bob Scott, isn’t it?”
Duncan was silent.
“You were willing to let Roderick take the blame?”
Bruce Duncan stood up straight. “He deserved it.”
“What about Becca’s shooting? Where were you? In the wings?”
“I bought a ticket, bought it from that girl who didn’t even recognize me.”
“Didn’t anyone in the audience see you with the gun?”
Duncan smirked. “I had it in my pocket. When I pulled it out, they were busy feeding cute lines to the freaks up on the stage. They wouldn’t have noticed a rocket launcher in their midst.” He laughed. “I had a seat on the aisle, and I slipped out at the beginning of Becca’s scene and stood by the door. The only reason I failed to kill the bride of Frankenstein was because some guy standing near me jostled my arm when he started cheering.”
“Does anyone have questions?” Victoria looked around.
Lennie peered out the window and addressed Roderick’s back. “Now you’re blocking three cars, sonny.
Two
of them are cops.”
Roderick started to get up, but his legs gave way and he fell back on the floor.
Smalley entered the kitchen along with Junior Norton and Tim Eldredge. All three carried drawn guns.
“You can put your weapons away,” said Victoria. “We’ve identified the perpetrator. Sergeant Smalley, you might want to read Bruce Duncan his Miranda warnings.”
 
“You’ve got to stop taking the law into your own hands,” said Casey, when she came to Victoria’s for coffee the next morning.
“Would you like my resignation?” said Victoria, pulling off her baseball cap. She’d been wearing it all morning.
Casey sighed. “Forget I said anything. That nut might have killed you.”
“I wasn’t on his list.”
“Telephone for you, Gram,” called Elizabeth from upstairs. “You can pick it up in the cookroom.”
Casey handed her the phone.
“Mrs. Trumbull, I presume.” A sonorous voice. Mellow, plummy, theatrical.
“Yes?”
“I am Nicholas Wright, artistic director of the Provincetown Players.”
“I’ve heard of you,” said Victoria.
“I should hope so,” said Nicholas Wright. “I am putting together next season’s schedule of plays, and would like to discuss with you the purchase of performance rights to
Frankenstein Unbound.”
“Oh?”
“I understand it’s an extraordinarily fine play. Demanding.”
“Thank you,” said Victoria, smoothing her hair. “I’m glad to hear that a reputable theater appreciates the seriousness of the subject and the gravity of the …”
“Serious? Grave? No, no, no, Mrs. Trumbull.
Frankenstein Unbound
is one of the finest farces to strut across the boards in decades. Comical. Witty. Slapstick.”
There was a long pause before Victoria told him, “I’ll have to
call you back.” She turned the phone off and held it against her chest. McCavity strolled in, glanced around, and leaped into her lap.
“A failure, Casey,” Victoria said, and handed the phone to the chief. “A total failure. My serious work was misunderstood. A farce. Slapstick, he called it. That’s success. Now the playhouse will turn Equity. Nothing can be done about it.”
Casey set the phone back in its cradle on the wall. “You solved two murders and two attempted murders, Victoria. Hardly a failure. You can write another play any old time.
The phone rang again and Casey handed it to Victoria.
“Victoria? It’s Ruth Byron. Got a minute?”
“I do,” said Victoria. “Several, in fact.”
“Wait until you hear what’s happened.”
“You sound a great deal more cheerful than I feel.”
“I fired Dearborn and got rid of my sister, both at once.”
“How is Becca?” Victoria asked.
“She’s fine. She’ll live. She’s making the most of her injury, of course.”
“You can’t blame her.”
“That’s not what I called you about. The Provincetown Players have hired both Dearborn and Becca, contingent on their performing your play.”
Victoria looked up at Casey, her eyes hooded, her wrinkles sagging. “I suppose that means there’s no way my play will ever be taken seriously,” she said to Ruth Byron.
“But it is being taken seriously! Farces are difficult plays to stage, probably the most difficult. Timing is critical. Please sell them performance rights, Victoria, will you?”
“I don’t want my name on the play.”
“And furthermore,” Ruth went on, “my board is thrilled with the receipts from those few performances of
Frankenstein Unbound.
We made enough to support the theater for two years. The board declared that this was amateur theater at its best.”
“Amateur? Dearborn and Becca? Roderick?”
BOOK: Shooting Star
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