Authors: Cynthia Riggs
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Cozy
Death and Honesty (6 page)
“Yes, sir.” They’d reached the Up Island Cronig’s turnoff. Darcy parked. “Would you like me to get the flowers for you, sir?”
“Good man.” Reverend True shifted onto one hip, reached for his wallet, and extracted two hundred-dollar bills. “Daisies, roses, something like that. Two, three dozen of each. Whatever that’ll get you.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Darcy went through the automatic door into the store, he turned quickly. Frank Morris was watching him.
Delilah tossed the flowers onto the couch. “I suppose you think buying up the entire flower store is going to buy me off? Well, think again.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Henry.
“Oh, cut it out.” Delilah stretched up to her full height plus the three inches her high-heeled sandals provided, and put her hands on her hips. She wore a ring with a gigantic yellow stone surrounded by quantities of small diamonds. “You’re staying in the guesthouse. Even though that man is here.”
“The pilot?”
“Who else? The alto? Maybe a tenor for a change?” Delilah jangled the silver bell on the end table. “You and he can work out your own sleeping arrangements.”
Lee slipped into the room. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do something with those.” Delilah gestured at the flowers.
“Yes, ma’am.” Lee gathered up the bundles of paper-wrapped flowers and vanished.
Henry checked his watch. “It’s about time for a nightcap.”
“I’ve had mine. You may go, Darcy,” said Delilah.
“Perhaps he can show me to the guesthouse,” suggested the pilot, who’d stood next to Darcy, silent until now.
Delilah waved a dismissal at Darcy “Take him away.”
After the two had gone, Delilah paced to the end of the conservatory. Henry followed.
“I keep telling you, it was nothing, nothing at all.”
Delilah spun around and sneered. “Nothing?”
“Just a little fling. Feeling my oats.”
“Feeling your oats, you … you … horse’s ass.”
“Now, Mother …”
“Stop calling me that!”
Henry shook the bell and Lee appeared again. “My dear, get Miss Sampson her usual, and I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. Make it a double.”
“Whose side are you on this time?” growled Darcy as the two swaggered toward the guesthouse in the growing darkness.
“Expect me to answer?”
“Watch your step … Morris,” said Darcy.
“Same to you … Meyer,” said Frank Morris, or whatever his name was.
Victoria got up early the next morning to water her newly planted honesty. She had plans for the day. Elizabeth had the morning off and had baked muffins with blueberries they had picked and frozen last July.
“Any news about Lucy’s murder, Gram?”
“It’s early still,” said Victoria.
“I saw Lucy’s sons at Alley’s yesterday. I didn’t know what to say to them. I finally just said I was sorry.”
Victoria nodded. “That’s really all you can say.”
Around seven, she gathered up her cloth bag and lilac wood walking stick.
“Can I give you a ride someplace, Gram?”
“No, thank you. It’s a beautiful morning for a walk, and I’m going only as far as the police station.”
She headed down the drive, swinging her stick as though a marching band followed. She’d tell the chief about yesterday’s visit from Delilah, but without mentioning the reappearance of Emery Meyer as Darcy the chauffeur. Casey had never trusted him, whatever name he used.
The sun was up. Another warm day, and the old-fashioned double daffodils along the side of the road would be in bright bloom. She strode along, flicking last fall’s leaves with her stick, uncovering new growth. Redwing blackbirds caroled in the reeds by the pond. Spring, spring! Victoria’s heart lifted with the newness of it all.
As she got closer to the police station, the pond and its swans
came into view. She thought of Delilah’s snapping turtles. The mill pond, too, had its share of turtles.
came into view. She thought of Delilah’s snapping turtles. The mill pond, too, had its share of turtles.
This morning, Lucy’s murder seemed remote, even though she and Howland had discovered the body only the night before last. Thirty-six hours ago. Delilah’s problems seemed even more remote. How tiresome to have officials hungering for your money. She’d never have that to worry about.
She crossed the small shell-paved parking space in front of the police station, nudged a duck out of the way with her stick, and climbed the steps into the tiny building. Behind her, a chorus of ducks and geese clamored to be fed.
Casey was standing behind her desk. Sunlight glinted on her coppery hair. The usually quiet police radio blasted out intense voices and static.
“Good morning.” Victoria shucked off her coat and settled into her wooden armchair with a sigh. She’d walked too briskly. “Any developments in the Lucy Pease murder case?”
“The forensic team came, did their thing, and left,” said Casey. “The state police are questioning neighbors.”
“They got my statement.”
“I know.” Casey reached for her gun belt and buckled it around her waist. “Your timing is uncanny, Victoria.”
Junior Norton adjusted the squelch on the radio. “Morning, Miz Trumbull.”
“What’s going on?”
“Ten minutes ago, Miss Sampson’s chauffeur called the communications center,” said Junior. “He found a body in her pond.”
“Good heavens. Another death. Who?”
“Male. That’s all we know at this point.”
Victoria felt a twinge of alarm. She found her baseball cap in her bag and set it on her head. Gold stitching read, “West Tisbury Police, Deputy.”
Junior pushed his chair back, stood up with a grin, and saluted her.
“Let’s go, Victoria.” Casey turned to Junior, who’d seated himself again. He wrote something as he listened to the radio. “Don’t forget to shut the door when you leave. Keep the critters out.”
Junior lifted a hand in acknowledgment.
Victoria climbed into her seat in the police Bronco and they headed for Delilah Sampson’s.
“I’ll be retired before the selectmen approve a lock for the door,” Casey remarked. “Fasten your seat belt, Victoria.”
Victoria found the buckle and complied. “Our police station is a public building.”
“I have confidential stuff in there.”
Victoria’s chin jutted out. “The public has a right to know. You’re paid with the public’s tax money.”
Casey quickly changed the subject. “I understand you’ve signed up for the Vineyard Haven Police Academy.”
“How did you learn that?”
“As you keep telling me, ‘You can’t keep secrets on the Island.’”
“You’d promised to send me to the police academy. The Vineyard Haven chief signed me up first.” Victoria looked straight ahead, her eagle’s beak nose lifted.
She was silent until Casey passed the mill pond. “I was at Delilah Sampson’s yesterday,” she said suddenly.
Casey glanced at her. “How come you didn’t tell me before?”
“I walked to the police station to tell you.”
They didn’t speak again until Casey steered around Dead Man’s Curve. “What were you doing at Miss Sampson’s?”
“She invited me.” Victoria continued to look ahead.
“I had no idea you knew the woman.”
“She came by my house yesterday, upset with the assessment on her property. She wanted my help.”
“Sheesh! What did she think
you
could do?”
you
could do?”
“Evidently, she thought I could do quite a bit.” Victoria lifted her chin.
“Sorry I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Her chauffeur drove me to Town Hall, and I discussed the assessment with the clerk.”
“Who gave you a lot of grief, I suppose.”
“It looks as though Oliver Ashpine and the assessors have concocted a scheme.”
“Yeah?”
“There are three different tax bills for Miss Sampson’s property based on three different assessments.”
“The same property?”
“Yes. I made copies of all three.”
“How’d you get them?”
“The Freedom of Information Act. I searched through a file drawer when Mr. Ashpine stepped away from his desk.”
“Victoria …”
“Last night I went over all the bills for her property. One bill clearly was prepared for the town’s records and showed the money the town would receive in taxes. The second bill was much higher, and the third was even higher. That was the bill that upset Miss Sampson.”
Casey bore left onto North Road at the great split oak. Tiny pink buds covered the branches of the old tree, saved by volunteer arborists after an autumn gale tore the tree in half.
They drove between the granite posts that marked the way to Delilah Sampson’s, and Victoria thought about Darcy finding the body in the pond. Just what was Darcy doing here? He certainly didn’t need the chauffeur’s job. The Bronco bounced along the track to the fork in the road, where she’d remembered that he was actually Emery Meyer, fellow lover of Robert Frost’s poetry. Or was he? Would his next alias be as Mr. Eye? That would be appropriate, since Henry’s ministry was with The Eye of God.
They jounced over a tree root, and Victoria braced herself. “The road is much smoother when one is in a limousine.”
“Maybe the selectmen will order one for me, along with a new door key.”
“Left, here,” said Victoria.
“Anything else you can tell me before we get there?”
“The Reverend True had to go off Island yesterday morning to a meeting. He returned the same day. The chauffeur met him and his pilot at the airport.”
“Who’s Reverend True?”
“Delilah Sampson’s husband.”
“Where’d he fly in from?”
“Boston. I gather the plane is owned by his church.”
They drove between another set of granite posts that bounded a stone wall onto the Belgian block drive, circled in front of Delilah’s house with its grand entrance stairway, passed the guest cottage, and parked in front of the four-car garage. Casey helped Victoria out of the passenger seat, and together they walked down the long grassy slope. Darcy was squatting on the ground well away from a body that lay facedown near the pond.
As they approached, Victoria could see that Darcy’s trousers and shirt were wet. Strands of pondweed clung to him. The body, clad in a dark windbreaker and dark slacks, lay on the grassy edge of the pond with his feet still in the water. Occasional wavelets shifted the untied shoelaces of one shoe. The loose ends writhed like young eels. The man’s head was turned away from her, and Victoria couldn’t see his face.
Casey glanced at the body, then at Darcy, who stood up. “You’re the chauffeur, sir?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Casey O’Neill, West Tisbury’s police chief.” She took out her notebook and pen. “Your name, sir?”
Darcy glanced at Victoria before he answered, and she nodded. “Remey,” he said. “Darcy Remey.”
“You shouldn’t have moved the body.”
“There was a chance he might still be alive, ma’am.”
“Any idea who he is?”
“Reverend True’s pilot, I believe.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“I met him yesterday afternoon.”
“You know his name?”
“Miss Sampson’s husband, Reverend True, introduced him as Cappy Jessup.”
Victoria leaned on her stick to examine the body more closely, then straightened up. “Could he have fallen into the pond by accident?” The man was Darcy’s size, slim, with short hair, so muddy she couldn’t tell its color.
Darcy said nothing.
Victoria looked around at the overgrown edges of the pond. “He may have banged his head on an overhanging branch.”
“How’d you happen to find him, Mr. Remey?” asked Casey.
“Walking Mrs. Sampson’s poodles, ma’am. One of the dogs found him.”
“Where was the body?”
“Far side of the pond.” Darcy pointed. “Facedown among the reeds.”
“You carried him from there to here?”
Darcy looked down at his wet clothes. “Towed him by the collar.”
“When you realized he was dead, you should have left him where you found him instead of dragging him all the way to this side.”
“A large snapping turtle was feeding …”
“Okay, okay,” said Casey.
“Not much left of his face.”
Casey shook her head. “Where are the dogs now?”
“Back at the house.”
“Does Miss Sampson know about this?” Victoria asked.
“I returned to the house with the dogs, shut them in their room, and called the communications center. It was a little before seven. Miss Sampson doesn’t usually come down for breakfast that early. I then returned here and stayed with the body.”
“And Mr. Sampson?”
“Reverend True,” said Darcy. “Reverend True had been quartered in the guesthouse with the pilot.”
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