Death and Honesty (20 page)
Authors: Cynthia Riggs
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Cozy
“Reverend True is tired, now,” chirped Nurse Mindy. “Time to go.”
“If you change your mind, sir, please contact me.” Casey handed Nurse Mindy her card.
As soon as they were out in the hall, Victoria sputtered, “The idea! The very idea!”
Casey shrugged. “Your word against Ashpine’s and Reverend True’s. What can you do?”
Victoria turned to Howland, who’d been standing silently by the door. “Please, take me home.”
On the way back to Victoria’s, Howland made a couple of unsuccessful attempts to calm down Victoria, but she was steaming mad.
“What’s wrong with him? I can understand his defending his wife, but why should he defend Oliver? He was lying. I feel like a fool. Henry would be dead, if I hadn’t yanked that pillow off his face. And he denies it ever happened. Why?” Victoria slapped her knee. “And Oliver Ashpine is free. To kill again. With impunity!”
Howland glanced over at her. “Impunity is an excellent weapon.”
Victoria ignored his attempt at humor. “Nobody believes me. Nice, kind, thoughtful Oliver was simply making Henry more comfortable, according to both of them. He was trying to kill Henry!”
“I believe you. So does Casey.”
“Bah!” said Victoria.
Delilah’s limo was blocking the drive when Victoria and Howland returned from the hospital. She let herself out of Howland’s car without his help and without thanking him and marched up to the limousine. Delilah lowered her window with a pleased smile.
“You’re blocking my drive,” Victoria said. “No one can get in or out.”
“I’m sorry.” Delilah emerged from the backseat without waiting for Darcy to open her door. Victoria stood, hands on her hips, annoyed with the world in general. Darcy glanced at her, drove around the circle, and parked under the maple tree. Howland took off without looking back.
Victoria led the way into the kitchen, with a begrudging attempt to be civil. She plopped down on a kitchen chair. “What do you want, Delilah?”
“I’m. embarrassed about yesterday, Mrs. Trumbull. I was so angry at Henry about his porn videos I intended to kill him.”
“He’s not pressing charges,” said Victoria.
“He wouldn’t dare. The nerve of him, telling Lee she was going to be a movie star. Lee’s only a kid. She believed him. She actually trusted him.”
“Tea?” asked Victoria.
“I can’t stay, but thanks. Did you ever find that deed Mrs. Danvers said I needed?”
“It slipped my mind,” said Victoria. “Give me a ride to Town Hall and I’ll look for it right now.”
“I don’t mean to take you from your writing,” Delilah said. “But …”
“That’s quite all right,” said Victoria. “I need to take my mind off things. Howland and I located most of the files before we found Tillie’s body.”
“Awful. Just awful!” Delilah held her crimson fingernails against her lips.
“It won’t take me more than a few minutes.”
“Are you sure you won’t feel, you know, uncomfortable up there? I mean, after finding what you did? The body?”
Victoria marched down the stone steps. The fat buds of the double daffodils by the cellar bulkhead were showing streaks of bright yellow, but Victoria didn’t even notice. Every spring, hers were the first in town to bloom.
Darcy brought the limo around and they headed to Town Hall. There were signs of spring all along the road, clumps of daffodils on Brandy Brow were about to burst into a cloud of sunshine.
At Town Hall, Mrs. Danvers greeted Victoria with her wintry smile.
“I’d like to go up to the attic,” Victoria said.
“Don’t find any more bodies,” said Mrs. Danvers, with a rare burst of humor.
Delilah gave out a small nervous laugh. “Shall I go up with you, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“You needn’t. It will take me only a few minutes, ten or fifteen at the most. I know where the folder is.”
“I’ll wait here, then, if you don’t mind. I’m not sure I can …” Delilah didn’t finish.
In the morning light, the attic no longer seemed sinister. Victoria found the file box marked “1910,” found a folder inside marked “Deeds,” and carried it downstairs. Delilah was sitting at the long table where the selectmen usually met, examining her nails. Victoria set the folder in front of her on the table.
“You know you can’t take that out of the building,” said Mrs. Danvers, looking over the top of her glasses, her hands poised above her computer keyboard.
“We’re looking for that deed
you
asked for,” said Delilah. “You don’t need to be so, so …”
you
asked for,” said Delilah. “You don’t need to be so, so …”
Victoria interrupted. “We’ll only be a few minutes, and then, if you don’t mind, I’ll make a copy and take the box back upstairs.”
Mrs. Danvers sighed. “I’ll take it back. I suppose I ought to see what the attic looks like,” and she turned again to her computer.
Victoria found the deed, made sure it was what Delilah needed, and went to the copier.
Mrs. Danvers untangled herself from her ergonomic chair. “I’ll copy it for you.” She took the deed and fed it into the copier.
“Thank you. How much do I owe you?”
“Forget it,” said Mrs. Danvers. “Everybody in this town pays too much in taxes. I’m not going to charge you for five sheets of paper.” She stapled the copy together and handed it to Victoria, who gave it to Delilah, who was examining her face in a small mirror, smoothing her lip liner with her pinky finger.
Delilah put the mirror away in her purse and picked up the deed. She leafed through it, then read until she came to the end. And then she started at the beginning again and studied each sentence, following the words slowly as though she couldn’t understand what she was reading. Her face had paled.
“What is it?” asked Victoria.
Mrs. Danvers paused in her typing and looked up.
Delilah dropped the deed on the table, pushed her chair back, and stared out the window at the church across the road.
“What is it?” Victoria asked again. “Let me see the deed.”
Delilah didn’t move.
Victoria picked up the copy and sat down at the table across from Delilah. The first four pages seemed to be a straightforward transfer of property from Josiah Hammond to his son, Israel, with specific boundaries spelled out. One read, “From the great oak two hundred paces in a southwesterly direction to the rock shaped like a toad …”
Delilah was slumped in her chair as though her bones had dissolved. Her color had gone from white to a greenish gray hue, and she continued to stare out of the window. Victoria turned to Mrs. Danvers. “I don’t suppose the oak and toadshaped rock are still there?”
“That property has been surveyed to a fare-thee-well,” said Mrs. Danvers. “Cement bounds with metal plates.” She smiled. “I don’t think that’s her problem.” A nod to Delilah.
Victoria read on. And there it was. On the last page, in a list of restrictions that carried solemn penalties, was what had stricken Delilah.
Victoria glanced at her. “The house was never to be torn down, was it?” she said.
Delilah was silent.
“If it were to be torn down,” Victoria said as she set the deed to one side, “the property, in its entirety, reverts to the town to be used as a park.”
Delilah spoke in a small voice. “I’ve got lawyers who will break that.” She seemed to get a spark of courage. “That deed will never hold up.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Mrs. Danvers. “When you bought the place, I warned you not to tear down the old Hammond homestead and told you what would happen if you did. Told you it was a historic building. Didn’t listen to me, did you?” Mrs. Danvers pushed her glasses back into place and returned to her computer, with a grim smile.
Darcy came into Town Hall and spoke softly to Delilah. “The hospital called, Miss Sampson. Reverend True has been released from the hospital, and is ready to be picked up.”
“Then do it,” said Delilah. “Take Mrs. Trumbull and me home first.”
“Will you be all right?” asked Victoria.
“I’ll survive.”
In an attempt to clear her mind, Victoria went outside to watch the vivid sunset colors flare and die. The clouds turned a dark purple, wind clouds, she called them. As she was about to go indoors again, Howland drove up. He was carrying a large box of Chilmark Chocolates.
“To cheer you up, Victoria. A cure for almost everything.”
Victoria smiled. “Thank you. I’m afraid I was being difficult earlier today.”
“Understandable.”
“Would you like tea?”
“Please.”
While they were waiting for the water to boil, the phone rang. Victoria answered, listened, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Lambert Willoughby. He’s calling from Oliver’s house and he wants me to get there right away.”
“Did he say what it’s about?”
“He sounded upset. Will you take me there?”
“Of course.”
Victoria spoke into the phone. “Howland and I will be there in ten minutes.”
When they arrived at Oliver’s house, they heard a dog’s frantic barking. Bertie, Oliver’s Jack Russell, was standing inside the open door, quivering, his feet apart, head up, yapping insistently.
Willoughby lumbered to the door. “Thank God you got here, Miz Trumbull. Ashpine’s down.”
“Dead?” asked Victoria.
“Almost. I called the Tri-Town Ambulance after I called you.”
“What happened?” asked Howland.
“I was trying to take a nap and that goddamned mutt was
barking his head off. I came over with a baseball bat to shut him up and found Ashpine there.” He pointed to Oliver, who was lying on his back on the floor near his computer. A blanket was draped over him.
barking his head off. I came over with a baseball bat to shut him up and found Ashpine there.” He pointed to Oliver, who was lying on his back on the floor near his computer. A blanket was draped over him.
“Heart attack?” asked Victoria.
“Dunno. The mutt is really bullshit about something. I figured since you fingered Ashpine as the killer, you oughtta be the one to collar him.”
Willoughby was interrupted by a loud crowing from across the lane.
“Damn, sounds like Chickee’s got out.”
“Have you given Ashpine first aid?” asked Howland. “Is he breathing?”
“He’s breathing, kind of. I didn’t move him in case he broke something. Put a blanket over him, is all.”
The ambulance siren sounded in the distance.
Chickee crowed. Bertie’s barking was more frenzied.
The ambulance turned into the lane that ran between the Willoughby and Rivers properties, pulled up in front of Oliver’s house, stopped, and let the siren die. Erica and Jim, the same EMTs Victoria had seen at Delilah’s the day before, hurried up the steps.
“There’s your man,” said Willoughby, pointing.
“Any idea what happened?” Jim asked
“Nope. His dog alerted me, and I came over to shut him up. Found him on the floor. Just like that.”
Chickee crowed again, closer, and the crow ended in a strangled croak. Bertie continued to yelp.
Erica knelt by Oliver’s head and felt the left side of his neck for a pulse. “Jim?” she said. “Look here.” Victoria looked, too, and saw a red, thumb-size bruise. Erica pulled the blanket away from his neck and Victoria saw the same red mark on the right side of his neck.
“Someone tried to cut off his circulation,” said Victoria.
“Looks that way,” said Jim. “A way to deprive the brain of oxygen.”
“I’ll call the police,” Victoria said.
“I called them,” said Erica.
Bertie, in constant motion, hustled over to the cellar door,
scratched at it, and continued to bark. He looked around, and barked still more insistently.
scratched at it, and continued to bark. He looked around, and barked still more insistently.
“Probably smells a rat,” said Willoughby. “Jack Russells is ratters.”
Chickee squawked and Jordan Rivers entered, holding the rooster, wrapped in a clean T-shirt, against his chest. “What’s going on?”
A second siren sounded in the distance, and in a short time the West Tisbury Police Bronco pulled up behind the ambulance. Casey emerged, hand on her holstered gun. Junior Norton followed behind her.
“Okay, everyone, what’s the trouble?” Casey looked down at Oliver and the two EMTs working over him. “Heart attack?”
Jordan handed Willoughby the rooster.
“Look at the marks on his neck,” said Victoria. “Bertie must have frightened off an attacker. He can’t be far away.”
“I’ll call the state police.” Junior slipped outside, radio in hand, and was back shortly. “They’re on their way.”
“Bertie is telling us someone is in the cellar,” said Victoria. “Is there an outside entrance?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Willoughby. “Bulkhead door out back.”
“Watch the exits, Junior,” said Casey, unsnapping her holster. “I’ll check the cellar.”
“No, ma’am. Better let me do that,” said Willoughby, passing Chickee on to Victoria. “Could be dangerous.”
Casey started to protest. “Too much testosterone around here,” she muttered.
Victoria smoothed the T-shirt around the rooster’s ruffled feathers.
“I’ll go with you,” said Jordan, pushing his glasses into place.
“That’s my man.” Willoughby held out his hand for Jordan to shake. “Miz Trumbull thinks we’ve finally cornered the killer. Ready?”
“Ready,” said Jordan, hitching up his bicycle trousers. “Is there a light down there?”
Junior Norton helped the EMTs load Oliver into the Tri-Town Ambulance. The ambulance took off, red lights flashing.
Victoria set Chickee on an overstuffed chair. The rooster struggled out of the T-shirt, tucked his head under his wing, and dozed off.
Time passed. There was no sound from the cellar.
“What’s taking them so long?” asked Victoria
“I’ll check,” said Casey.
Before she could open the door, Willoughby and Jordan Rivers came up from the cellar. Willoughby was breathing heavily.
“Clean got away,” he said between puffs.
“Could he still be hidden somewhere in the cellar?” asked Victoria.
“Nope. Cellar’s clean as a whistle. The bulkhead door was open, though. Must’ve got out that way while we was dealing with Ashpine.”
“Where’s Bertie?” asked Howland, who was sitting at Oliver’s computer studying what he had been looking at.
“Bertie took off after him,” said Jordan. “We followed him for a short way, but it’s too dark to see anything. He’s a gutsy little dog.”
Casey turned to Victoria. “I’m going to the hospital to check on Oliver. Wait here for the state cops.”
“And I’m going to my place and get a six-pack,” said Willoughby. “Want a Bud, Miz Trumbull?”
“That sounds lovely,” said Victoria.
“I’ll take care of Oliver’s dog while he’s in the hospital,” said Jordan.
Howland moved his chair, and in doing so, knocked over a box that was next to the desk. A dozen or more cards spilled out. Howland picked one up. “Property cards,” he said. “What was Ashpine doing with these?”
“They belong in Town Hall,” Victoria said.
A terrific scratching and growling sounded at the front door, and Victoria opened it. Bertie stood there with a scrap of dark cloth between his teeth. He laid the scrap down at Victoria’s feet, and looked up expectantly at her. She picked it up and let the dog in. The cloth was bite-size and black. She smoothed it out. Cotton sweatshirt material, fuzzy on one side, smooth on the other, and clearly torn from sweatpants.
“Good pup,” said Victoria, patting his sturdy flank. The dog wriggled, stumpy tail wagging.
“About the only good thing I can say about Jack Russells is they’re smart,” said Willoughby, who came in after Bertie, carrying the beer. “He went after the guy. Have a beer, Miz Trumbull.” He wrenched up the pop-top and handed the can to her. “Want a glass?”
“No, thanks. This is fine.” Victoria tucked the scrap of fabric into her pocket without thinking and took the cold beer.
“Guess this proves you’re wrong about Ashpine being the killer, Miz Trumbull. Leaves us with Reverend True, just like I told you.” He held his can of beer up. “Cheers!”
“Cheers!” said Victoria, and took a few sips. “It can’t be Henry. He got out of the hospital only a few hours ago. He could hardly run through the woods in the dark.”
“Told you, he’s a sneaky bastard. How about a Bud, Atherton?” he called out. “One with your name on it.”
“No, thanks,” said Howland. “Victoria, want to see what Ashpine was looking at when he was attacked?”
Victoria was still engaged in the Henry versus Oliver debate. “Henry was weak, extremely weak, when I saw him in the hospital this morning. I’m surprised they discharged him.”
“Don’t believe anything he says or does,” Willoughby said.
“That’s true.” Victoria nodded, recalling Henry’s refusal to press charges against his would-be killers. “But he wasn’t faking his feebleness.”
Howland turned again to Victoria. “Ashpine was looking up appraisals, including the assessors’ and Willoughby’s houses.”
“Mine? The dirty rat,” said Willoughby.
Victoria went over to the computer and Howland moved aside to give her room. The screen showed a photograph of a house and listed the address, owner’s name, a description of the buildings and land, and the appraised value.
“Interesting,” said Victoria, shifting to a second screen, then a third.
“Trying to squeeze more taxes out of us,” said Willoughby. “That’s what he was doing.”
After studying a fourth screen, Victoria turned to Howland. “Would you please take me home?” She handed him her unfinished beer.
“Sure,” said Howland, setting her beer on the table.
“You can take that Bud with you, Miz Trumbull,” said Willoughby. “Something for the road.”
“Not right now, thanks,” said Victoria.
“Hadn’t you better wait for the state police?” asked Jordan.
“You deal with them, Jordan. Come, Howland.”
Outside, Howland held his car door open and Victoria got in.
“What’s the hurry, Victoria? Are you okay?”
“I think I know where the intruder went after escaping from the cellar. There’s an ancient way behind the Willoughbys’ that leads to State Road across from the New Ag Hall. He must have known about it. The attack on Oliver was all planned out.”
“He must know the area pretty well,” said Howland. They jounced over the washboard surface of Simon Look Road, turned onto Old County Road, passed Whippoorwill Farm and the school, and turned onto Scotchman’s Lane.
“Hurry!” said Victoria. “If we’re lucky, we may be able to intercept him.”
Scotchman’s ended at State Road, and Howland stopped at the stop sign and waited. A blue pickup truck passed, heading toward Vineyard Haven. “Which way, Victoria?”
Victoria was trying to decide whether to turn right or left when a light-colored SUV whizzed past them, well over the speed limit.
“I’ve seen that car around Town Hall,” said Howland, as the taillights disappeared around Deadman’s Curve. “Subaru. I’m pretty sure it belongs to one of the town employees.”
“Follow him,” said Victoria. “Don’t lose him.”
“There’s only one way he can go until he gets to Brandy Brow.”
They were well behind the Subaru when it turned right at Brandy Brow. The car slowed in front of Alley’s and turned into Ellen’s driveway.
“I should have known,” said Victoria.
“Want me to park behind him?”
“Her,” said Victoria. “Park behind her and call Casey. Tell her to meet us here with the state police.”
“Right,” said Howland. “I’m going in with you.”
“Wait here. There won’t be any trouble now. Keep an eye on things, in case I’m wrong.”
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