Authors: Cynthia Riggs
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Cozy
Death and Honesty (7 page)
“Wake them up, all of them,” Casey ordered. “Tell them to wait in the house until I get there.”
“The conservatory, ma’am?”
“Fine. The state police are on the way.”
Darcy started back up the slope to the house, wet trousers slapping against his legs, shoes squelching.
Victoria watched him stride up the lawn. Ahead of him she could see the flashing blue lights of police vehicles and the line of tiny blinking blue lights with which Doc Jeffers had crowned his motorcycle helmet.
“Darcy seems familiar,” said Casey, “but I can’t place him. Do you know anything about the pilot, Victoria?”
“No,” said Victoria. “Nothing at all.”
While the state police marked off an area around Delilah Sampson’s pond and strung yellow tape around the scene of an unattended death, Oliver Ashpine was wondering how he could deal with the three assessors. He filled Bertie’s bowl with Alpo and set it out in the fenced yard, and then began to fix his own breakfast. What could he do?
He poured himself a third cup of coffee. Almost eight o’clock. He slapped a rasher of bacon into the cast-iron pan and broke two eggs on top.
Those harpies. Humiliating him like that. With the Alley’s porch loafers watching. What kind of warped constitutions did those women have, meeting in that house of death? You’d think they’d show respect for the dead.
Next door the rooster crowed, and that started Bertie barking. The rooster crowed day and night. The racket had kept him awake most of the night. He could sympathize with Jordan Rivers, who lived across the lane from the Willoughbys. Rivers had complained to the police about the rooster, and, of course, the police did nothing. All Rivers accomplished was to make an enemy out of Willoughby. In no way did Oliver intend to antagonize Willoughby, who had some kind of pull with the assessors.
How was he going to defuse this goddamned situation? He’d lain awake listening to that rooster, trying to decide what to do. Three against one, and together they had decades of so-called service to their goddamned beloved town, and here he was, a newcomer. Not a newcomer to the Island, but a newcomer to this snobby town that called itself “the Athens of Martha’s Vineyard.” Pfaugh!
He added cream and no-cal sweetener to his coffee and
stirred it, then flipped the bacon and eggs. What could he do? He peered out of the kitchen window at the scrub oaks that showed a faint haze of pink. Bertie had finished his dog food and was digging a hole near the fence.
stirred it, then flipped the bacon and eggs. What could he do? He peered out of the kitchen window at the scrub oaks that showed a faint haze of pink. Bertie had finished his dog food and was digging a hole near the fence.
Oliver’s house was at the end of Simon Look Road, one of the new developments off Old County Road. Desolate goddamned place. Only three houses along the road were year-round, his and the Willoughby’s next door and Rivers’s across from the Willoughby’s. Complaints about the rooster weren’t going to get Rivers anywhere. Willoughby had worked for the town for years. So had his sister, Tillie, whose job Oliver now had.
The rest of the houses on Simon Look Road were summer rentals. Come July, party, party, party. He wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. Someday, when he had money, he’d move out of this slum. Money, money, money. Always money.
A car went by on Old County Road. The rooster crowed.
He knew what would happen if he tried to unmask those three assessors. Suppose he reported to the selectmen, or stood up in Town Meeting and said the assessors were removing property cards from Town Hall in defiance of state law? And suppose he said they were altering property cards, punishable by a jail term? He smiled at the thought. And suppose he said they were overbilling selective property owners, embezzling funds, and squirreling away townspeople’s money in a private account? What would happen? The town would laugh it off, a simple mistake made by three dear old ladies.
He paced to the coffeepot, then realized he still had a full mug. He turned off the heat under the frying pan, slid the bacon and eggs onto a plate, and returned to his seat.
Townspeople would say the assessors had served the town for long and dedicated years. At worst, the confused accounting would be chalked up to approaching senility. The old biddies could always fall back on that.
He picked up his pencil, then tossed it down again.
Who’d get in trouble? He would. That militaristic bitch Ellen would get all self-righteous, and show that he, Oliver Ashpine, was the one skimming money from the town’s taxes, and he’d end up his days rotting in a dingy state prison.
Ellen Meadows was the problem. Too bad the neighbor was killed instead of her. He could deal with the other two. Selena, the lightweight, and Ocypete, drifting off on some cloudy remembrance of protest marches past.
A preemptive strike, that was what he would have to do. He moved his chair closer to the kitchen table with his full plate and coffee mug near at hand and a pencil and paper to plan his preemptive strike, then the phone rang. Early for anyone to call. Not yet eight.
“Ashpine here.”
He grinned when he heard the voice on the other end.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “Yes, of course. It occurred to me …
“Yes, yes …” he said.
“Certainly, but …” the caller wasn’t letting him get a word in.
“Well …” Oliver tapped his pencil on his preemptive strike notes, making small dots.
“Just let me …” He listened for a long time, then slammed the phone into the cradle. “Goddamn!” he said out loud. “Hung up on me.”
Somewhat rattled, he stood up, stared out of the window at Bertie, who’d given up his digging and was chasing his stubby tail, and sat down again. He was trying to rekindle enthusiasm for his preemptive strike when Bertie started yapping. There was a knock on the back door.
“Come in,” he called out, surprised. No one ever visited him, certainly not before eight on a weekday morning. Not UPS or FedEx. Not this time of day.
The door opened and he turned to face his caller.
The rooster crowed. Bertie continued to bark.
Oliver stood and his napkin dropped on the floor. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” said Oliver.
On the North Shore, police cruisers from four Island towns, the state police vehicle, the Tri-Town Ambulance, and Doc Jeffers’s Harley were parked by Delilah Sampson’s garage, and a group of law enforcement officers gathered around the pond and the defaced victim.
At the last house on Simon Look Lane, Oliver Ashpine’s unexpected caller seated himself across from Oliver.
Ellen Meadows had spent a sleepless night wondering what the police had learned about Lucy’s killer, and thought how stupid she’d been to insist on sleeping in her own house. It must have seemed strange to townspeople.
At Town Hall, Mrs. Danvers, the town’s executive secretary, was opening yesterday’s mail. She was tall and lean, almost cadaverous. Her slim tan jeans and shirt with vertical yellow stripes made her look taller and slimmer.
Dale Fender, the selectman who’d ousted Lucretia “Noodles” Woods in the last election, had come into Town Hall early to clear up some paperwork, and was sitting at the big oak table. He and his wife had celebrated their fortieth anniversary day before yesterday, and his wife had assured him that he was mature, responsible, conscientious, and in charge, and that was the way he felt this morning.
“Another one,” said Mrs. Danvers, slapping a letter with the back of her hand. “This is the fifth complaint we’ve gotten this week about the tax bills.” She got up from her desk with the letter and slid it across the table.
“Where’s Oliver?” Dale asked. “This is his job.”
“Oliver is late again. He’s worse than Tillie.”
“Who’s the complaint from this time?”
“Mrs. Summerville, as usual. She hasn’t received her tax bill.” Mrs. Danvers’s glasses had slipped down her nose, and she pushed them back.
Dale sighed.
“Oliver’s got to go,” said Mrs. Danvers. “I can’t spend all my days fielding complaints about his job.”
“We can’t get rid of him,” said Dale. “He’s Denny’s wife’s cousin. Did he call in sick?”
“Not a word from him.” Mrs. Danvers peered over the top of her glasses. “And as you rightly know, this isn’t the first time he’s pulled this.”
“Did you call his house?”
“Got the answering machine.” Mrs. Danvers tugged a pencil from behind her ear where she’d stashed it, and dropped into
her chair. “He’s probably gone fishing. Everyone on the Island seems to think that’s a legitimate excuse. Fishing.”
her chair. “He’s probably gone fishing. Everyone on the Island seems to think that’s a legitimate excuse. Fishing.”
Dale shook his head and the strand of hair he’d combed over the balding spot unstuck itself. He smoothed it back into place. “Not Oliver. He hates the out-of-doors.” Dale picked up the letter, read it, and held out his hand. “Give me the rest of those complaints, and I’ll get my wife to answer them.”
“What’s the idea of hanging up on me?” Oliver stood, fists clenched on his hips, and looked up. “What do you want now, Willoughby?”
Standing, Lambert Willoughby loomed over Oliver. He strode over to a chair, turned it around, and sat with his arms crossed over the back. Seated, he was almost at eye level, even with Oliver standing. Despite the chill morning, he wore a thin T-shirt tucked into soiled jeans. His bulky arms were covered with tattoos, faded with age to a bleary red and pale blue.
Willoughby was chewing gum. “How much you skimming off our taxes, Ashpine?” He wiped a wrist across his mouth.
Oliver looked for something to lean on and finally sat down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t, eh?” Willoughby smiled, lips together.
Oliver shook his head.
“You got my sister’s job, right?”
“Tillie? Tillie is your sister?”
“Don’t play stupid. You know whose sister she is. You got Tillie’s job after she run off with that guy.”
“Her job’s not exactly a big deal,” Oliver said bravely. “Not much more than minimum wage.”
Willoughby laughed. “I got my sister that job as assessors’ clerk. You knew that, right?”
Oliver studied the faded tattoos. Entwined snakes, he thought.
“You think I don’t know about the paperwork? About the assessors’ setting-aside account?”
Oliver didn’t look up. The more he studied the tattoos, the more they looked like snakes. Big, fat snakes.
“Cat got your tongue, Ashpine?”
Oliver looked up.
“You don’t think the assessors leveled with me?”
Oliver looked down.
Willoughby went on. “I know about their scam and they know I know. Fact is, they told me. Those three ladies need someone they can trust. Besides me, that is. I told them Tillie was their gal. And she was. Never blabbed a word to anyone. Put aside a nice little nest egg, right?”
Oliver looked away.
“Right?”
Oliver stammered, “I don’t know.”
Willoughby mimicked him. “You don’t know? I’ll just bet you don’t know. Those three ladies made goddamned sure you knew exactly what you was gettin’ into.” Willoughby thumped his chest with a fist, then folded his arms again and chewed his gum.
“What do you want?” Oliver watched Willoughby’s jaw.
“Same deal Tillie and me had.” Willoughby unfolded his arms from the back of the chair and stood up.
Oliver leaned back as far as he could. “What deal?” The smell of his untouched bacon and eggs, so appetizing only a few minutes ago, now made him queasy.
“Fifty-fifty cut.” Willoughby smiled.
“Fifty …” murmured Oliver.
Willoughby shrugged. “I’m not greedy. Leaves you with a nice piece of change.”
“This is the first I’ve heard …”
“Been five months, right?”
“Right,” agreed Oliver.
“Tax bills went out this week, right?”
Oliver nodded.
Willoughby laughed, exposing stained brown teeth and a small wad of pink chewing gum. “I don’t suppose we need to put anything in writing, do you?”
Bubble gum. Oliver’s legs had begun to tremble.
“Gentleman’s agreement, right?” Willoughby thrust out a meaty hand.
Oliver heard the rooster crow. Bertie, who’d stopped barking, started up again.
Willoughby frowned and shoved his hand closer. “Right?” he said louder.
Oliver nodded and stuck out his own damp, limp hand.
Willoughby squeezed, not hard, but firmly. “That’s my man.” He let go and Oliver’s chair wobbled. “Got to feed Chickee. Nice talkin’ to you. See you around.”
With that, Willoughby strode to the door, opened it, and slammed it shut behind him.
The rooster crowed again.
Oliver scraped his bacon and eggs into the trash. His stomach churned. He staggered into the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, knelt on the floor, and threw up the three cups of coffee he’d drunk a lifetime ago.
That same morning, Delilah’s closed bedroom curtains blocked out the view of the Elizabeth Islands, Vineyard Sound, the beach, and the activity around her pond. She pushed the curtains aside to let in the morning light, and gave a startled cry.
“Henry, wake up. It’s almost ten. Something horrible has happened! I should never have let you stay in my room.”
“Hmmm?” The pink comforter on Delilah’s heart-shaped bed muffled Henry’s voice. “Did you sleep all right?”
“I shouldn’t have taken those sleeping pills. I overslept and now look what’s happened.”
“What has?”
“Get up, Henry. Dozens of people are at the pond.”
“Dozens of people?” Henry swung his stocky legs over the side of the bed, stretched his arms over his head, yawned hugely, and reached for the terry-cloth robe he’d dropped over the bedpost in his haste last night.
“Did you hear me? Henry!”
“Coming, Mother.”
“Mrs. Trumbull and a lot of uniformed policemen.”
“Police,” mumbled Henry, tying the belt of the robe. He padded over to the window and stood next to Delilah. He tilted his head and briefly rested his chin on her breast. She had clothed herself in a filmy peignoir that was printed with lavender cabbage roses.
He peered distractedly at the activity around the pond far below them.
“Where are your glasses, Henry?”
“Would help, wouldn’t it?” murmured Henry, feeling around on the top of the dresser until he found them.
“You’d better get back to the guesthouse before someone sees you here.”
“Right. I’d better.” Henry stopped suddenly. “There’s no reason I should leave.”
“I’m angry with you, remember?” She glared at him. “I should never have let you in last night. Never.”
“Ah!” Henry said with a smirk. “Yes. I remember.”
Delilah turned to the window. “Mrs. Trumbull and some woman in uniform are walking up from the pond. Get away from the window.”
Henry smiled. “I suppose I’d better get dressed. You still make a fine choir girl.” He stood on tiptoe and kissed Delilah on her chin.
“Use the door off the deck so you don’t wake up the pilot,” said Delilah, brushing his kiss away.
Henry bundled up the trousers, shirt, jacket, and underclothes he’d shed last night and tucked them under one arm. He slipped his feet, sockless, into his wingtips and cinched the belt on the terry robe. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” he said. “Ta, ta, Mother.”
“Stop that mother crap, and tie your shoelaces.”
Henry smiled again. He tiptoed out of the bedroom, shoelaces trailing, and closed the door gently behind him.
Darcy was waiting at the back entrance when Victoria and Casey reached the house. “I haven’t informed either Miss Sampson or Reverend True of the drowning, Chief.”
“What’s the trouble?” Casey asked.
“It would have been awkward, ma’am.” Darcy didn’t explain. “I’ll see if one of them is available now.”
Victoria indicated Darcy’s slime-covered trousers that were no longer dripping, but were still slapping wetly against his legs. “You’d better change first.”
Darcy bowed. “Thank you, Mrs. Trumbull.” He escorted Victoria and Casey into the conservatory and left.
Victoria avoided the low couch and sat in a wrought-iron garden chair where she could see the pond. The police had circled the area with yellow tape, as if it were a crime scene, not an accident. The body had been zipped into a plastic bag and lifted onto a stretcher. As she watched, four men carried the stretcher up the sloping lawn toward the garage and out of view.
High heels clicked on the slate floor and Delilah entered the conservatory. “Mrs. Trumbull! What’s going on? What are the police doing here?”
Casey stood up. “Miss Sampson, I’m Chief O’Neill, West Tisbury Police.”
Delilah’s hand went to her throat. “What’s happened?”
“A man’s body was found in your pond, ma’am.”
“A body?” Delilah flung herself onto the couch.
“Your chauffeur believes it’s your husband’s pilot.”
“That can’t be!” Delilah shook her head, and her bright hair swirled.
“In the case of an unattended death,” said Casey in her official voice, “the police are called. At this time, we have no reason to believe his death is anything other than an unfortunate accident.”
“Why the pilot?” asked Delilah.
“I beg your pardon?” said Casey.
“Nobody knew him.” Delilah closed her eyes.
“Where is your husband now, Miss Sampson?”
“In the guesthouse. The pilot was staying in the guesthouse, too.”
“Have you talked to Reverend True this morning?”
“Talked to … ?” Delilah glanced from the pond to Casey to Victoria to the orchids, and then to the door.
Casey started to repeat her question. “Miss Sampson, have you spoken …” when Henry entered the conservatory
“Good morning, Mother.” He went to Delilah and pecked her on the cheek. “Sleep well?”
“Henry,” said Delilah faintly. “The police …”
Casey stood and introduced herself.
Henry ignored her extended hand. “What’s going on?”
Casey went through the account of a man found dead in the pond.
“My pilot, you say, Officer?” Henry dropped into the couch next to Delilah, picked up her beringed hand with his chunky one, and patted it absently.
“Miss Sampson’s chauffeur claimed he met your pilot yesterday for the first time. I understand he was staying in the guesthouse with you, sir.”
Henry nodded.
“Did you hear him leave at any time during the night?”
Henry smiled. “I’m a heavy sleeper.”
“You didn’t hear him leave the guesthouse, sir?”
“I’m afraid not.” He squirmed into a better position. “I don’t know the pilot well. Didn’t know him, that is.”
As Casey questioned Henry, Victoria glanced from Delilah to her husband.
“He seemed a nice enough fellow,” said Henry.
“Would you give me his name, sir.” Casey took out her notebook. “I’ll need to notify next of kin.”
“Of course. Cappy something.” Henry paused. “I think it’s Jessup. Cappy Jessup.”
Casey looked up. “Your plane and pilot?”
“The ministry’s plane. The Eye of God ministry.”
“How did you happen to engage this particular pilot?”
“My personal assistant did the scheduling.” Henry got up from the couch and jingled the bell on the table. “Coffee for everyone, my dear,” he said when Lee appeared. “And something to go with it. Rolls or coffee cake.”
“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”
He lifted his great white eyebrows at Casey. “Care to ask Lee anything?”
“Later.”
“That will be all,” said Henry, and Lee left.
“I’ll need to talk to Darcy,” Casey said, writing something in her notebook.
“Darcy?” asked Henry. “You mean the chauffeur?”
“He found the body this morning. Walking the dogs.”
“Yes, of course.”
“We won’t know until after we get the medical examiner’s report how long the pilot was in the pond.”
“Several hours, I suppose?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Victoria gazed out of the window down the grassy slope to the pond, scarcely registering Casey’s interrogation of Henry. Victoria thought of the snapping turtles that lived in the pond. One, at least, was two feet long. And Henry and Delilah were covering up something.
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