Shooting Star (6 page)

Authors: Cynthia Riggs

BOOK: Shooting Star

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Bob Scott would play two parts, the Arctic explorer and Bruce Duncan’s role as Frankenstein’s boyhood friend.

Did Nature Boy think he didn’t notice what was going on between him and Becca? Dearborn smiled to himself. One of these days, he’d take care of Bob Scott. No hurry.

What an ass Bruce Duncan was. Wooden when he was on stage, theatrical when he was off. Even Scott was a better actor.

He hadn’t found a substitute yet for Gerard Cohen, who played the blind father. He was surprised when Cohen refused to go on tonight. Cohen was one of his supporters. He, Dearborn, could play both the blind man and Victor Frankenstein. The two were never on stage at the same time.

The bride of Frankenstein was a problem. As insufferable as she was, Dawn Haines was an excellent actress, knew her lines, didn’t over-emote, knew how to cover for someone else’s missed lines. Dearborn tapped his fingers on the desk and slapped his shirt pocket as though he still carried cigarettes. He’d quit smoking three years ago.

And then he had an idea. What was Victoria Trumbull’s granddaughter’s name? Perfect. She’d be perfect. Elizabeth Trumbull, that was it. He picked up the phone and dialed Victoria’s number.

Elizabeth answered. “Absolutely not,” she said, when he identified himself and told her why he was calling. “No way.”

Dearborn Hill could be charming when he wanted to be. He talked about her grandmother’s play. The work, the art, the soul her grandmother had put into her adaptation of the old classic. He spoke about the traditions of the theater. The show must go on. He mentioned gently and tastefully how Peg’s passing
would be honored. He avoided any talk of the sell-out crowd he hoped to attract. He cajoled, apologized, appealed to her loyalty to her grandmother, appealed to her sense of vanity, and, under other circumstances, might have worn Elizabeth down.

She looked up and saw her grandmother’s expression.

Victoria was variously described as looking like an owl or an eagle. Now, she looked like a stone warrior. Her flushed cheeks seemed to be daubed with war paint. Her deepset hooded eyes glittered.

“Sorry, Dearborn. Find someone else,” Elizabeth said, and disconnected.

On his end, before Elizabeth hung up, Dearborn heard what was unmistakably Victoria Trumbull’s low, clear voice saying, “The idea! The very idea!” and he frowned as he pressed the button that cut off the connection.

“Why on earth would he call here?” Victoria sputtered. “‘The show must go on,’ indeed. How unfeeling! How mercenary! My own granddaughter … !”

Elizabeth held up her hands to ward off her grandmother. “Hey, Gram. I told him no. Anyway, I’ve got to work tonight.”

CHAPTER 9

Elizabeth left for the afternoon shift at the harbor, where she was assistant dockmaster, and Victoria was alone again. She tapped her fingers absently on the space bar of her typewriter until the bell dinged. Where would she hide if she were eight years old?

She went back to work on her column. Thunder grumbled in the distance. She heard a knock on the kitchen door, and she opened it to two girls wearing jeans, backpacks, and running shoes. They smiled uncomfortably.

“Mrs. Trumbull?” the shorter of the girls asked.

“Yes?”

“I’m Tracy and this is my friend Karen.” Tracy was slender with short dark hair. She pointed to the taller girl. “Karen and me, we’re here for the summer and need a place to stay?”

“Oh?” said Victoria.

Tracy shifted her feet uneasily. “We stopped at the police station.” She glanced up at Karen. “And a woman, like, fixing their computer, told us you sometimes rent rooms?”

“Come in.” Victoria opened the door wider. The clouds had begun to fill the sky to the northwest. A stiff wind tossed the tips of the cedars in the pasture and flipped the leaves on the Norway maple. “Looks as though you got here just in time.”

As she spoke, lightning flashed, followed by a rumble of thunder. The girls stood uncertainly inside the door.

“Have a seat,” Victoria suggested, indicating the gray-painted kitchen chairs.

They took off their backpacks and set them on the floor, then perched, as though ready to take flight.

Victoria seated herself at the kitchen table across from them. “Are you vacationing?”

“We’re working at the Harborlights Motel?” said Tracy.

Karen nodded. “Waiting tables.” Karen had great quantities of curly blond hair, disheveled in a way that Victoria, who was not usually critical of styles, wanted to brush into some kind of order. “We were staying in Chilmark, but …” Karen ran a hand through the mop of hair. She glanced quickly at Tracy.

“It’s kind of far to commute,” said Tracy. “Your house is right on the bus route.”

Victoria wondered where this was going. “Yes, it is convenient.”

“We tried hitchhiking …” said Karen, and stopped.

“It’s quite safe on the Island,” said Victoria. “I often get around that way.”

The girls looked at each other, then at Victoria. Tracy sighed, then blurted out. “We were hitching last night and got picked up by, like, a really weird
thing …”

“I suppose it was covered with blood, with fangs and stitches and electrodes coming out of its head?”

The girls stared at Victoria.

“That’s our local drug enforcement agent, Howland Atherton …” Victoria started to say, but Karen interrupted.

“We don’t do drugs!”

Victoria held up a hand to reassure them. “The police picked up Mr. Atherton after you called nine-one-one …”

“That
thing
was DEA?
Undercover
?” Tracy blurted out.

Victoria got up, filled the teakettle and plugged it in. “Mr. Atherton was in costume for a play. The police have been trying to locate you.”

“Us?” Karen glanced uncomfortably from Victoria to Tracy.
“Drugs
?” She ran her fingers through her hair again, and Victoria
thought about offering her a comb. “My parents would kill me if they thought … !”

Tracy pulled a cell phone out of her jeans pocket. “Maybe the battery’s low?”

The sky had darkened during the few minutes since the girls arrived. Victoria switched on the light.

“Cellular phones have poor reception on the Island. Call Sergeant Smalley at the state police right away and let him know you’re safe.” Victoria showed them where the phone and directory were. “After you talk to him we can see about a room.”

Karen found the number and Tracy punched it in. She explained to Sergeant Smalley about Roddie, the poet at Island Java who said it was okay to hitchhike, then about the creature stopping to pick them up. She handed the phone to Victoria. “He wants to talk to you, Mrs. Trumbull.”

Smalley said, “Do you know anything about this Roddie character, Mrs. Trumbull?”

“He’s Dearborn Hill’s nephew, Roderick Hill. He reads often at Island Java. His poetry is quite good.”

“He have a job?”

“He works at Rapid Express Agency at the airport.”

“How old is the guy?”

“Early twenties.”

Smalley paused and Victoria could hear his swivel chair squeak. “Until I sort things out, can you put the girls up for a few days?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Roderick that a few years won’t cure.” Victoria glanced over at the two girls and nodded. “But I’ll find room for them.”

Tracy and Karen looked at each other and grinned.

“Thanks, Mrs. Trumbull. We owe you. For accommodating Dr. McAlistair as well.” Smalley hung up.

Lightning flashed, and an immediate clap of thunder rattled
the house. Karen put her hands over her ears. The lights dimmed, then brightened again. Rain slashed against the glass.

Victoria got up again. “I’d better shut the windows before everything gets soaked.”

“We’ll help,” said Tracy.

They went from floor to floor, closing the old sashes.

“The big attic has two more, but I’ll leave those open. There’s not much up there that rain can damage.”

“We’ll shut them, if you’d like,” said Tracy.

“Thank you. That would be nice.” Victoria opened the door to the steep attic stairs and the girls scampered up. They returned almost immediately.

“The one in the room with the bed was already closed, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Tracy.

Victoria thought about that for a moment. “My granddaughter must have shut it for some reason. What about the other window?”

“That was open, but rain wasn’t coming in.”

“Does someone sleep up there?” Karen asked.

“Sometimes. Visiting great-grandchildren like to camp out in the attic.”

“I didn’t realize you had a dog, Mrs. Trumbull,” Karen said.

“I don’t have a dog,” said Victoria. She studied Karen and her unruly hair. “I have a cat. No dog would dare trespass on McCavity’s territory.”

“Oh,” said Karen, sounding puzzled.

“Let me show you your room.” Victoria opened a door leading off a small hallway and the girls peered in.

“Awesome!” said Karen.

“Wow,” said Tracy. “This house is huge!
Two
attics.”

The small attic room over the kitchen was bright, despite the gloom outside. Two east-facing skylights looked out on dark clouds and the tops of wind-lashed trees. A window on the south overlooked the roof of the one-story cookroom. Rain streamed down the asphalt shingles. The bare boards of the ceiling
sloped steeply to low walls. A braided rug in shades of red, gray, and white covered most of the painted floor.

Lightning flashed.

Karen covered her ears.

“Did your house ever get, you know, hit by lightning, Mrs. Trumbull?” asked Tracy.

“Not that I know of.”

Rain sheeted down the outside of the skylights.

“We brought sleeping bags,” said Karen. “We can sleep on the floor.”

“You won’t need to do that.” Victoria started down the enclosed staircase that led down to the kitchen, bracing her hands against the walls for support. “I have folding cots in the big attic. You can bring them down later.”

“Can we move right in?” asked Karen.

“Certainly.”

“We don’t have a lot of money,” said Tracy.

“We can work something out.”

“Is someone else staying here?”

“My granddaughter, Elizabeth, lives with me, and Dr. McAlistair will stay a few nights. She’s a forensic scientist.”

“Forensic, like in somebody murdered?” asked Tracy.

“Yes,” said Victoria. “Just like that.”

CHAPTER 10

Dearborn Hill had run out of time. He’d given up hope of getting a substitute for the role of Frankenstein’s bride.

A hell of a thunderstorm was raging, clanging, dimming lights, dropping torrents of rain. An appropriate prelude to opening night of this play.

The stage manager would have to read the part of Frankenstein’s bride as well as the part of Justine. He cursed Dawn Haines and her lack of professionalism. Dawn was ideal for the role, good voice, good figure, and a stage presence hard to define. Bratty, snippish, spoiled, but a fine actress.

Nora was a fine stage manager, but no actress. She had a shrill voice and no sex appeal. Resented the idea of projecting sex appeal. She’d trudge onto the stage, he knew, read the lines accurately but woodenly, and trudge offstage again.

He wanted a drink badly. To hell with AA and the agreement with his sister-in-law. When the theater turned Equity, he’d tell the backers she had to go. Maybe then she’d understand.

A drink. Becca had always liked him best after he’d had a drink or two. Every time he’d sobered up, their marriage went on the rocks. At which thought he envisioned himself with a Jack Daniel’s, rattling the ice cubes and being terribly witty.

He thought about her grubby affairs every time he went on the wagon. Bob Scott. What could she possibly see in that dirt-caked landscaper? When Scott tried out for the part of the Arctic explorer, Dearborn’s first reaction had been to send him packing. His second reaction was to give the guy the role. Smother
him with his lack of sophistication. He sighed. And just then, his phone rang.

“Yes?” he answered wearily.

“Dearborn, darling!”

“Becca,” he said with surprise. “Where are you?”

“On Island, darling. Just got in from Boston. Getting soaking wet outside the ferry terminal. Do I hear you have a play opening tonight and no actors?”

Dearborn groaned. “A death and a kid missing.”

“The play must go on.”

“That’s theater,” said Dearborn.

“Have you talked to my holier-than-thou sister?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“What did she say about all this?”

“What you’d expect.”

“She’s appalled at your insensitivity, isn’t that right?”

Dearborn grunted.

“The ghoulish public will flock to the theater?”

He grunted again.

“I know my sister.” Becca’s voice rose. “She pulled the wool over Aunt Fifi’s eyes. Actress, indeed. Ruth can’t act her way out of a wet paper bag. Auntie had no right to give her that building.” Dearborn could hear her tapping her fingernails on the phone.
“I’m
the actor in the family, and always have been. Ruth and her, quote, community theater. Piffle!”

“‘Piffle’?” Dearborn’s spirit lifted slightly. “Do you plan to come to the opening tonight?”

“Can you guarantee that my dear sister will
not
be there?”

Dearborn thought about his wife’s voice and her ability to project it. How she could move her body to denote aggression or submission or dejection or wild sexuality. He wanted her badly.

“You’re not saying anything, darling,” Becca purred.

“I can guarantee Ruth won’t be there.”

“Maybe I’ll come, then,” Becca murmured.

Dearborn thought for a moment, then cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t consider going on stage tonight, would you?”

“Moi?” said Becca.
“Moi
? With no rehearsals? You’re joking. I don’t even know what the hell play you’re putting on.”

“Frankenstein.”

Becca’s laugh rose from cello through viola to violin, trembled with vibrato, tossed out a bassoon note or two, warbled into a flute aria, and ended with a tympanic rumble. “And what part am I expected to play, the bride of Frankenstein?”

“Yes,” said Dearborn, astonished that she’d identified the very role he wanted her to play. “You’d be perfect.”

“Darling, I’m speechless!” murmured Becca. “A bride made up of discarded human parts, partially decomposed, stitched together with wire, limbs that don’t quite fit the torso?”

“No, no,” said Dearborn. “That’s Frankenstein’s monster. He constructs the monster in his college dorm.”

“Darling!” said Becca, breathlessly.

“No, no,” Dearborn repeated. “Frankenstein’s bride is a lovely young girl, pure, innocent. Fresh, untouched beauty.”

“Innocent? Pure?” Laughter again. “How sweet!”

Dearborn’s spirits rose further. “You can do it, Becca.”

“Of course I could, darling,” she said, using her lower register. “But I won’t.”

“The audience doesn’t expect you to know your lines. You can read them, and you
can.”
He took a breath and heard a rumble of thunder. “The bride of Frankenstein has never been given a break before now. I can see you reading that part. The subtlety, the hidden wit, the naive girl with a raging appetite. For unknown delights,” he added.

“That’s in the play?” asked Becca.

“The role is yours to do with as you wish. You’ll enthrall the audience. No one has ever done this. We’ve been fed movie and television versions until that’s all we know. This play is the real thing.” He thumped his fist on the desk. “With your acting, no one will even notice the play script in your hand.”

Had he hooked her yet?

“You need a drink, darling,” she whispered.

“Pull this off and I’ll take you to any bar on the Island.”

“I suppose you’ll be drinking your usual Shirley Temples?” she muttered. “I don’t drink alone.”

“By Godfrey, I’ll join you.”

“I’ll think about it,” murmured Becca.

“Double-time run-through in a half-hour?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Dearborn cleared his throat delicately. “Grand way to jerk your sister’s chain.”

Peal of merry laughter. “What a silver tongue you have, darling. See you in twenty minutes, then,” and she hung up.

Dearborn opened his bottom desk drawer and took out the Jack Daniel’s he’d bought earlier, when he’d felt his lowest. He broke the seal, twisted off the cap, poured an inch, two inches, of the tawny liquid into the bottom of the mug he’d been drinking coffee from all afternoon, and, to celebrate, downed the first drink he’d had in eight months, sixteen days, and, he looked at his watch, three hours.

Trooper Tim Eldredge reported to Sergeant Smalley at the police barracks after interviewing Jefferson Vanderhoop on his boat. He had tried, too, to track down Peg Storm’s ex-husband, Leonard Vincent. Eldredge had been caught in the downpour, and was now wet, rumpled, exhausted, unshowered, and unshaven.

Smalley was still crisply pressed and smelled clean. “So the T-shirt shop doesn’t know Mr. Storm?”

“Mr. Vincent, sir,” said Eldredge.

“Vincent, then.”

“They know who he is, but he doesn’t live there.”

“Or work there?”

“No, sir.”

“Check with the registry. Must have a driver’s license.”

“No record of a license, sir.”

Smalley sat at his desk. “Check the voting records, Tim.”

“Yes, sir. I did. He’s not registered.”

“In none of the six towns?”

“No, sir.”

Smalley swiveled his chair and faced the corner of the room where the flag of the Commonwealth hung limply on its staff. “A person can’t hide forever on this Island.”

“No, sir.”

“You check at the courthouse, the address he gave in the divorce records?”

“Yes, sir. His sister’s address in Jersey City.”

“What did his sister have to say?”

“The address turned out to be a Chinese restaurant.”

Smalley swiveled back. “Contact the Jersey City police.”

“Yes, sir. No record of anyone named Vincent, man or woman. Or Storm, either.”

“In the entire city?”

“Yes, sir.”

Smalley ran a hand over his short hair and muttered, “Where can the guy be?”

Eldredge was about to drop into the wooden armchair in front of Smalley’s desk, but propped himself up, holding its back instead. “Sir, would you mind if I went home and changed?”

Smalley stood. “Sorry, Tim. Of course.” He looked at his watch. “Two hours give you enough time?”

“Yes, sir,” said Eldredge, stifling a yawn.

The storm had passed and sunlight streamed through the far clouds. Victoria, wearing black rubber boots muddy almost to her ankles from the afternoon’s rain, was out in the glorious afternoon, deadheading irises in the perennial border. Casey pulled up next to her in the police Bronco. The rain had left behind sweet-smelling air, puddles, and mud.

Victoria shaded her eyes with a dirt-caked hand. “Rabbits.”

Casey leaned toward the window. “What about rabbits?”

“They ate every one of my tulips this spring. Just nipped off the buds, before they had a chance to bloom.”

“Doesn’t McCavity scare them off?”

“He watches.” Victoria took a swipe at a faded iris blossom with her secateurs. “I hope you got Patrick and his friends to the beach before the storm hit.”

“They had enough time for a dip.”

Victoria tucked her secateurs into the pocket of her trousers. “I assume you’re here on business?”

Casey nodded. “Flights from Boston to the Vineyard were canceled because of the storm, so Teddy Vanderhoop’s mother took the bus to Woods Hole and caught the boat that gets in at four-thirty. I’m picking her up in Vineyard Haven.”

“Why the West Tisbury police?”

“The Tisbury and state cops are working both cases—the missing boy and the death of Peg.” Casey paused. “Understand you were at the funeral parlor?”

“Yes.”

“Did Sergeant Smalley say anything to you, Victoria?”

“He told me, in no uncertain tones, to keep quiet.”

“He told me Peg didn’t die from the fall.”

Victoria wiped her muddy hands on her corduroy trousers. “Give me a minute or two to wash up and change my clothes.”

“Kind of wet for gardening, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been planting some
Dodecatheon poeticum.
An Oregon friend sent me a dozen or so bulblets.”

“Yeah?” said Casey. “What’s the ‘dodeca’ part. I can guess the rest.”

“Shooting star. Poet’s shooting star.”

“Appropriate. At least no one’s tried to shoot Frankenstein yet. Maybe he’ll do the shooting, since he’s the star.”

Victoria ignored Casey’s attempt at humor. “The flowers are quite beautiful, a sort of rose-lavender. They look like miniature
badminton shuttlecocks. I hope the ground isn’t too wet.” Victoria splashed through a small lake in the driveway and headed into the house, stomping mud off her boots on the entry mat.

Casey listened to the police radio while she waited. Communications was calling the West Tisbury police. Someone had thrown a brick through the window of the Rapid Express Agency’s office at the airport. Casey lifted the mike and called her sergeant, Junior Norton.

“Right, chief. On my way.”

A few minutes later, Victoria appeared, clean, combed, and calling out instructions to someone behind her.

Casey opened the door. “Is your granddaughter home?”

Victoria hoisted herself into her seat. “Elizabeth’s at work. But I’ve acquired two more guests.”

Casey headed out of the driveway. “In addition to the doc?” She braked to let a dump truck go by on the Edgartown Road.

“The hitchhikers the police were looking for showed up at my house. I’m putting them up temporarily.” Victoria pulled down the visor and checked her reflection in the mirror. “Will Mrs. Vanderhoop want to stay somewhere other than her own house?”

“You don’t happen to have an extra room, do you, Victoria?”

“I have the downstairs bedroom. She should stay away from her own house until we find Teddy and solve Peg’s murder.”

“State
police are the ones who solve murders.”

The radio crackled and Junior Norton’s voice came on. “Chief, you know the brick that was thrown through the Rapid Express office?”

“What about it?” asked Casey.

“A note was wrapped around the brick. On VETA letterhead.”

“VETA?” asked Casey.

“Vineyarders for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Says, ‘Even cannibals don’t stew innocent fish. Only REAL people do.’”

“What in hell is that supposed to mean?”