Authors: Cynthia Riggs

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Cozy

Death and Honesty (5 page)

BOOK: Death and Honesty

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Victoria shifted position on the soft couch. She was cushioned too well. She longed for her firm old-fashioned sofa with its unyielding horsehair stuffing.

“I told Henry my old chauffeur had a family emergency. He’d been with me for five years.”

“I suppose you checked Darcy’s references?” Victoria asked.

“Absolutely stellar. He showed me a folder full of nice letters from all over the world.”

Victoria nodded. Darcy, in his previous incarnation as Emery or Meyer—she never could remember which name he preferred—
had made frequent trips to Amsterdam, she knew. He’d popped up in Paris, Moscow, Mexico City, Cairo, London, and Singapore, according to people who thought they knew him. Now, Saudi Arabia. She still wasn’t sure what he was. A freelance CIA agent or an opportunistic jewel thief. Someone once hinted that he was a hired killer. Perhaps he was all three.

Victoria was inclined to trust him, within limits. He knew the poetry of Robert Frost, after all. And he owned copies of all her own poetry books. She’d autographed them for him.

CHAPTER 8

Victoria was engrossed in thoughts about roosters, dyed chickens, fainting goats, and jewel thieves, and missed what Delilah said next. When she looked up, puzzled, Delilah repeated it with a throaty laugh. “Just imagine, Darcy drove for royalty and now he drives for me.”

“Ah,” murmured Victoria, nodding.

Lee entered the conservatory quietly. She held a tray with a glass of pale sherry, a martini, and a plate of dainty sandwiches.

Victoria sat up as straight as she could on the soft couch and helped herself to a watercress sandwich.

Once Lee had gone, Delilah said, “Getting back to that clerk, Victoria. Did he correct the mistake?”

“I don’t believe there was a mistake. Someone altered the paperwork. Intentionally.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who pays your bills for you?”

Delilah pouted. “I’m a ninny about numbers. My lawyer and my financial adviser take care of everything.”

“The assessors apparently counted on that.” Victoria set her glass on the coffee table in front of her. “How did the latest bill come to your attention?”

“My adviser questioned it, and even I was shocked at how the taxes had gone up. Almost double. In one year.” Delilah set down her own glass next to the bell. “Actually, the bill came from the tax collector, not the assessors.”

“Mr. Ashpine is tax collector as well as assessors’ clerk. The selectmen appointed him to fill out Tillie Willoughby’s term.”

“The woman who ran off with someone else’s husband?”

Victoria frowned. “That’s purely a rumor. I’m not much for
rumors.” She patted her mouth with the dainty linen napkin Lee had provided with the sandwiches. “Mr. Ashpine is up for election this month at Town Meeting.”

“We don’t want him to win, do we?”

“If no one else runs, he’ll win by default.”

At that point, the phone rang. Lee slipped back into the conservatory and answered.

“One moment, sir.” She handed the phone to Delilah. “Reverend True would like to speak with you, Mrs. True.”

“Lee, it’s Miss Sampson. How often must I remind you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Delilah rolled her eyes, sighed, and took the cordless phone. “Henry, darling. Where are you?”

Victoria tried not to listen, but did anyway.

“Darcy will pick you up.” Delilah paused. “You want the pilot to stay here?” She leaned forward. “I’m not running a boardinghouse.” Long pause. “Listen, Henry …” She ran a hand through her hair. “I’m trying to get in a word … Henry!” She sighed. “Oh, have it your way. But he stays in the guesthouse. On the couch … No, Darcy’s in the garage apartment …” She slammed down the phone.

Delilah turned to Victoria, her face flushed, her hair awry. “Henry had to go off Island today. One of the church pilots flew him here from Boston, and now the pilot claims he’s too tired to fly back. A half-hour flight?”

“You handled that very well,” said Victoria.

“My husband can be aggravating. You won’t let him know what I told you, will you, Mrs. Trumbull?”

“Certainly not.”

Delilah stood up and put the phone back in its cradle.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Victoria said. “If Henry’s not staying in the same house with you, doesn’t he suspect that you plan to end the marriage?”

“He thinks I’m punishing him because I found out about his new friend, the alto. A high school sophomore.”

“High school student?” Victoria sat up straight.

“She’s almost twenty.”

Victoria was silent.

“He likes altos,” Delilah explained, brushing a crumb from her bosom. “That’s how we met.”

Victoria took a deep breath. “How do you hope to establish your farm without Henry knowing about it? This plan of yours has some impracticable elements.”

“It’s going to work, Mrs. Trumbull. I know it will.”

“How will you explain all the animals?”

“They’re my pets.” She clasped her hands under her chin. “After talking to you I feel much better. I won’t challenge the assessment. Then Oliver won’t talk to Henry and I’ll have a year to establish my farm.”

“You may be too late. While I was in the assessors’ office, Oliver got a call from Ellen Meadows. I got the impression the call involved your assessment. As I was leaving, I saw him hurry across the road to her house.”

Delilah dropped her hands into her lap. “Oliver will be furious. Ellen showed me a tax bill that was sent to landowners, and it wasn’t at all like the one I received.”

“Ellen may have uncovered a scheme that Oliver set up,” said Victoria. “Oliver won’t gain anything by talking to Henry. He certainly can’t blame you now.”

“I don’t know what to do.” Almost absently, Delilah picked up the silver bell and rang it before Victoria could think of a way to distract her.

Lee slipped into the conservatory. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Darling, would you please ask Darcy to come here?” Victoria held her breath. She wanted to examine the copies of property cards she’d made at Town Hall before Delilah saw them. But Delilah told Lee, “Darcy needs to pick up Reverend True at the airport.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lee gathered up the sandwich plate.

“Mrs. Trumbull,” Delilah hesitated. “I shouldn’t have said anything to you. About the farm?”

“I shan’t tell him.” Victoria finished her sherry and set down the glass. “My house is on the way to the airport. Your chauffeur can drop me off.”

Darcy appeared and Delilah gave him his instructions. Victoria levered herself out of the deep sofa.

Delilah stood. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Trumbull.”

Victoria smiled. “I look forward to meeting your fainting goats.”

Darcy escorted her to the waiting limousine. “Fainting goats, Mrs. Trumbull?”

“Yes.” Victoria didn’t elaborate as he handed her inside. Once on the main road she rapped on the glass.

The partition slid aside. “Yes, madam?”

“Exactly what are you doing here?”

“I am serving as Miss Sampson’s chauffeur, madam.”

Victoria sighed. “You’re overdoing the Jeeves bit.”

Darcy grinned into the rearview mirror.

“What does your being here have to do with Delilah? Besides this bogus chauffeur job, that is.”

“Please,” said Darcy.

“Probably not Delilah,” murmured Victoria. “What about Henry, the husband?”

Darcy’s grin was broader. “We have our little secrets, don’t we, Mrs. Trumbull. Fainting goats?”

“What’s Henry like? The husband.”

“He arrived two days ago and took off again this morning for a meeting in Boston. I haven’t met him yet.”

“Delilah claims he’s the spiritual leader of a church called The Eye of God. It sounds like a cult.”

“It’s an enormous church. He’s only one of their clergymen,” said Darcy. “Not the head.”

“She’s a star on one of his television programs. I understand that’s how you met her?”

At that, Darcy laughed.

“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”

“No, madam,” said Darcy.

“But you’re not after her jewelry?”

“Hardly, madam.”

And with that, Darcy slid the glass panel shut.

The limo pulled up to Victoria’s west door and Darcy escorted her to the steps, where Elizabeth waited. He handed Victoria her bag of papers and she winked at him, as he had earlier at her. “Thank you,” she paused.
“Darcy.”

“What was that all about?” asked Elizabeth.

“A friend’s chauffeur brought me home,” said Victoria, and waved airily at Darcy.

Elizabeth looked quizzically from the chauffeur standing by the sleek limousine to her smiling grandmother. “What have you stirred up now, Gram?”

“I had tea at the old Hammond place,” said Victoria.

“Tea?” Elizabeth said. “It’s suppertime now.”

Darcy slipped behind the wheel and continued on to the airport three miles away. He pulled up in front of the terminal where two men stood with their suitcases. One was a short, round, jolly-looking man with thinning white hair, great wings of eyebrows, and a narrow mustache. The other, presumably the pilot, was about Darcy’s height and age, early forties. Darcy controlled a start of recognition. The pilot glanced at him, raised his eyebrows, and looked away.

“Reverend Sampson, sir?” Darcy asked the white-haired man, and touched his cap.

“Reverend
True.
Sampson is my wife’s stage name.” Without waiting for a response, he went on. “Understand you’re the new chauffeur.” He nodded with a cherubic smile. Darcy loaded the two suitcases into the limousine and held the door for Reverend True, who started to get into the backseat, then stopped. “Didn’t introduce you two, did I. Darcy … what’s your last name?”

“Remey, sir.”

“Right. Cappy … ?” he paused.

“Jessup. Cappy Jessup.” The pilot smiled. “Pleased to meet you,
Darcy.”
Neither offered to shake hands. The pilot waited for Reverend True to settle himself with his laptop, then went around the limo and sat beside him.

“Do you wish to go directly to Miss Sampson’s, sir?” Darcy asked, looking into the rearview mirror.

“Fine.” The reverend busied himself with his laptop.

Darcy headed away from the airport. The pilot had not said a word. In the rearview mirror Darcy saw him prop his elbow on the door frame and stare at the scenery, acre upon acre of scrub oak and dead red pine. They dipped smoothly into one of the glacial swales and up the other side.

When Darcy had first met Victoria Trumbull, she’d described the dips in the road as “thank-you-ma’ams.” A swaying horsedrawn wagon would toss a couple together, if they positioned themselves just right, she’d said. He thought of the way she savored the limousine’s luxury, stretching out her still fine long legs and leaning back into the soft leather. Darcy speculated, for the briefest of moments, on what might have happened if he’d been born fifty years earlier and then had met Victoria Trumbull.

They came to the outskirts of the village and passed the huge maple trees that surrounded Victoria’s house. No one had said anything. Reverend True was still working on his computer. Darcy checked the mirror and saw his face bathed in a bluish light from the screen. He could see the pilot, too, watching him with a slight smile.

On that last job the pilot’s name had been Frank Morris. What was Morris doing here on Martha’s Vineyard? Clearly, he wasn’t about to acknowledge that he knew Darcy. For that matter, Darcy didn’t care to acknowledge that he knew Frank Morris, either. Or Cappy Jessup, since that seemed to be his name now.

They passed the police station on the right and Darcy braked at the hand-lettered sign by the mill pond that read “Slow! Turtle Crossing.” Two swans sailed on the black surface of the pond.

Darcy knew a few things about the man called Frank Morris. Or Cappy Jessup. He had a helicopter license, he could speak Russian, German, and Italian fluently, and he had been trained to kill.

They turned right at Brandy Brow toward the cemetery, and Darcy tried to puzzle out why Frank Morris was here. To protect someone? Or to kill someone? Who?

Henry or Delilah? Perhaps he, Darcy, was Frank Morris’s target. Kill or protect? For that matter, he had his own assignment. Perhaps he and Frank Morris had been hired by the same person. Was Frank Morris there to clean up after removing him from the action?

They skirted the cemetery at Deadman’s Curve and passed Whiting’s fields, where a murder of crows scavenged for carrion. After the arboretum they crossed the brook. Skunk cabbage was unfurling its bright green leaves. At the split oak, they turned left.

Reverend True tapped on the glass partition. Darcy lowered it. “Take me to Up Island Cronig’s, Darcy I’d better pick up some flowers for the little woman.”

Darcy slowed at a wide entrance on the right where there was a large green mailbox, and made a U-turn.

Now that Reverend True had broken the silence, he became garrulous. “I’d take her orchids, but there are plenty of those at the house. My hobby, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” said Darcy.

“I suppose I should look for something just the opposite, like daisies.”

“Very appropriate, sir.”

“Quite a gal, Delilah.”

Darcy said nothing.

Reverend True settled back into the seat. “Hasn’t spoken to me for three weeks. Mad at me, you know?”

“I didn’t know that, sir.”

“Hysterical over that alto. Cute little piece. Perfectly innocent. Can’t say I blame the little woman. Redhead, you know?”

BOOK: Death and Honesty

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