The Bee Balm Murders (9 page)

“She lives on North Water Street.”

“Is she paying for it? Or some male friend.”

“What do you know about her?” asked Victoria.

Sean reached down, pulled up a blade of grass, and stuck the end in his mouth. “First saw her maybe three months ago at a selectmen’s meeting.”

“Where Orion spoke?”

“She was in the audience acting like some big deal. Talked to him after and they went off together.”

“She’s investing in his company.”

“Yeah? Has he seen the money?”

“She’s buying a drill rig as a share in the company.”

“She is, hey?” Sean chewed on his grass stem, then tossed it aside. “Has Orion seen a purchase contract?”

“Parnell Alsop drew up a contract.”

“Him!” Sean spit out a strand of chewed grass, stood up, and stretched. “Gotta go, Victoria. Mrs. Wingfield’s got bees in her barn.”

“And honey?”

He nodded. “Any progress on the murder investigation?”

Victoria scowled. “I have no idea. They’re not sharing information with us.” She looked up at him. “Can you save the honey?”

“By the time I get it out of there, if I can melt the wax without burning down her barn, it’ll be full of debris. Worthless.” He got into his truck, rolled down the window, lifted a hand, and took off.

*   *   *

Finney Solomon stopped by Orion’s office after his breakfast with Dorothy Roche. He plopped into the chair he’d occupied the day before and set his briefcase down.

“How was your breakfast?” Orion asked.

“Impressive woman.” His speech was only slightly slurred. “Knows her stuff. Excellent taste in champagne.” He touched his briefcase with deliberate care. “Whole magnum.”

Orion nodded. “What time’s your flight?”

Finney looked at his watch carefully. “Three o’clock. Not quite two now. I’ve checked out of the hotel.”

“We’ll leave for the airport in a few minutes. Any last-minute odds and ends we need to tie up?”

Finney said, “She’s an important member of your team.”

Orion nodded.

“You signed the contract?” Finney asked.

“Casper signed it and left it for me to look over. I haven’t signed yet.”

“No hurry, far as I’m concerned,” said Finney, brushing an imaginary crumb off his trousers. “Take your time. I’ve got a few items to look into.”

“Do you need any other information from me?”

“I’m all set,” said Finney, getting to his feet.

On the way to the airport, Finney was understandably quiet, and Orion didn’t attempt to converse with him.

They pulled into a parking place at the airport, went into the waiting room, and Finney checked in at the Cape Air counter. “A hundred and ninety-seven pounds,” he informed the gray-haired woman at the counter before she asked. “Gained two pounds at breakfast this morning.”

She smiled and noted his weight.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said to Orion. “Send me the signed contract so I can get to work.” They shook hands. Finney went through the security check, the Cessna taxied up to the gate, and Orion went out the side door of the airport to where he’d parked. He climbed in and sat for a while, waiting until the Cape Air flight left.

He felt vaguely troubled.

Finney had been distant, strange, and it seemed to be something other than the half-magnum of champagne he’d consumed a couple of hours earlier. He’d have to discuss Finney with Dorothy, next time he met with her.

He backed out of the parking space and headed to the office.

*   *   *

Finney felt a bit queasy on the short flight to Boston. He leaned his face against the cool glass of the Cessna’s window and shut his eyes. That was a memorable breakfast with Dorothy. What a woman! An experienced woman. A wealthy woman. Finney sighed.

In Boston he made his way to the departure gate. After he’d boarded, he settled into a window seat where he could again rest his face on the cool glass.

Finney Solomon was new at the venture capital game. He had a two-year degree in business from a community college and had interned at a couple of places during that time, a bank and a mortgage firm. Years ago his father had introduced him to the great Angelo Vulpone. He’d been just a little kid at the time and was awed by the powerful man. Once he decided on a career like Vulpone’s, he tried unsuccessfully to meet with him, and instead, kept an Angelo Vulpone scrapbook of articles about him. Through the articles, Vulpone became Finney’s mentor, at least according to Finney.

Finding financing for Universal Fiber Optics would be a piece of cake, according to Angelo, quoted in a recent business column. High-tech communications was a sure thing, didn’t matter what the economy was doing. The only trick to it, Angelo had said, was making sure the right person was managing the project. You needed a man with a combination of brains, expertise, courage, and personality. Plus a degree of cold-bloodedness, a focus on the project so intense that not much else mattered. The columnist had ended by writing that in Orion Nanopoulos, Angelo believed he’d found the right person.

Finney knew nothing about the technology, nor did he care. Orion knew what he was doing. His plan made sense. He’d convinced Angelo that an optical-fiber network for the Island was not just for better cell phone reception, but so emergencies could be dealt with at the speed of light.

But now that he’d breakfasted with Dorothy, he sensed her reservation about Orion. She’d assured him she hadn’t meant to say anything negative, and of course, she hadn’t. One of his strengths, Finney believed, was his sensitivity to nuances. He’d check around, see what other Islanders thought. He wasn’t about to make a decision involving fourteen million based only on that whiff of concern of Dorothy’s. The trouble was, he didn’t know any Islanders.

When he got back to his apartment in Union City, he called Dorothy. He thanked her again for the delightful respite from his heavy schedule, told her again what a great asset she was to the project. He said, “I’m doing a routine check of Nanopoulos. Can you suggest a couple of Island people I might talk to?”

“Of course, Finney, dear,” said Dorothy. “Hold on a minute while I get my address book.”

She was back on the phone shortly. “Here are three people who know him well. Denny Rhodes, a West Tisbury selectman; Parnell Alsop, my attorney; and Daniel Pease, the head of the Department of Public Works.” She gave him the phone numbers. “I’m sure they’ll help you. Call me if you need anything else, Finney, dear.”

Finney noted the names and numbers on his yellow legal pad.

Dorothy asked, “How was your flight from the Island?”

“I was busy and hardly noticed,” said Finney, who hadn’t remembered much about either flight. “Again, thanks.” He needed to disconnect in a hurry because quite suddenly, he wasn’t feeling so great.

C
HAPTER
12

The night had turned cool, so Victoria lighted a fire in the parlor. Orion came home to a comforting blaze.

“Would you care for a glass of wine?” he asked.

Victoria set her book down. “Alcohol apparently slows the effects of the doxycycline. I’m not supposed to drink.”

“Cranberry juice, then.” He turned toward the kitchen.

“Actually, I don’t think a small glass will hurt.”

Orion returned with two wineglasses and a bottle of Bug Light Red. Victoria told him about the bee swarm and Orion shuddered, almost spilling the wine.

“According to the beekeeper, bees aren’t terribly aggressive when they’re swarming.”

“All the same, I’ll keep my distance,” said Orion, handing her a glass, half-full.

“Just to be safe, where do you keep your antidote?”

“In my car,” said Orion. “An EpiPen. You twist off the cap and jab the cylinder at your thigh.”

“Through clothing?”

“It’s designed to be used quickly,” said Orion.

Victoria said, “I suppose I should have an EpiPen in case a guest is allergic to bees and gets stung.”

“I’ll get one for you. Once you use it, you’re to call nine-one-one.” He dropped a log onto the fire, sending up a shower of sparks, and sat down.

“How did yesterday’s meeting with the venture capitalist go?” asked Victoria.

“I don’t know.” Orion set his glass on the small table next to him. “Finney Solomon is young, which isn’t necessarily a drawback. But he has nothing to offer. Simply a promise that he’ll come up with fourteen million within six months. He expects us to pay a retainer.”

“You haven’t signed anything yet, have you?”

“Not yet. By the way, he had breakfast with your friend this morning.”

“Dorothy?”

Orion nodded.

“What did he have to say about her?”

“Not a great deal,” said Orion. “They finished off a magnum of champagne…”

“A magnum!” exclaimed Victoria. “That’s an entire bottle each. Good heavens!”

“La Grande Dame, according to Finney. That much he told me before he clammed up. I took him to the airport and he didn’t say a word the whole way.”

“Small wonder,” said Victoria. “Where does Dorothy get that kind of money?”

“Family money, I assume,” said Orion.

“She’s not from old money. I can tell.”

“I don’t care where the money comes from, Victoria. She’s buying the Ditch Witch drill. That’s a fact.”

“When will you start using it?” She wasn’t about to tell him the beekeeper’s opinion of Dorothy Roche’s wealth.

“Friday,” Orion said. “Three days from now.”

“It’s going to rain,” said Victoria.

*   *   *

The next morning, Victoria walked slowly to the police station, each step an effort. She hoped it was the doxycycline and not advancing age. She refused to think about it. Instead, she thought about Dorothy Roche deluding Orion and probably that wealthy Finney Solomon as well.

What on earth was the matter with men that they could be so easily misled by a false smile and a dab of perfume?

Then it occurred to her. Perfume was nothing but a pheromone, a chemical that caused behavioral changes in animals. Including men.

Dorothy was daubing herself with pheromones, a queen bee attracting drones for a deadly mating flight. Victoria stabbed her lilac-wood stick into an anthill without thinking, and the ants hustled to mend the damage. She moved on. Orion was not behaving logically. But how could he behave logically if he was chemically bewitched?

She reached the police station, not even aware of the cars that had passed on the Edgartown Road, or the lowering sky. When the ducks dozing under the rosebush got to their feet and gathered around her, she snapped out of her reverie. She’d brought stale bread, as usual, and shook it out of the paper bag onto the grass, then folded up the bag and tucked it into her pocket. She climbed the steps to the station house, entered, and dropped into the armchair in front of Casey’s desk.

“Morning, Victoria. How are you feeling?”

“All right,” said Victoria without enthusiasm. “Can you look up the background of someone for me?”

Casey studied her. “Who do you need looked up?”

“Dorothy Roche.”

“Oh, her.” Casey swiveled to face her computer and entered keystrokes. “What do you need specifically?”

“Is she as wealthy as she claims? If so, where does she get her money?” Victoria put both hands on the top of her stick. “Orion said she’d established several businesses. Can you find information on those?”

Casey concentrated on the computer for a few minutes. “Interesting.” She angled the screen so Victoria could see. “Here’s a picture of Dorothy Roche. A television actress.”

“That’s not her,” said Victoria, examining the image of the pretty, dark-haired teenager on the screen.

“Didn’t think so,” said Casey.

“Are there other Dorothy Roches listed?”

Casey typed in more keystrokes. “A few long gone.”

“May I use your phone?”

Casey pushed the instrument and the directory across the desk. Victoria found the number for her Realtor friend.

“Hi, Mrs. Trumbull. How can I help you?”

“Another favor to ask. Dorothy Roche was the reference for Tris Waverley, who’s renting that house I asked about. She lives on North Water Street. Does she own the house?”

“Hold on.”

Victoria heard the sound of computer keys. “She’s renting it. Came in May, signed a lease to mid-September.”

“Do you know who she used as a reference?”

“Bruce Vulpone, her TV producer. I didn’t realize she’s a TV actress.”

“Can you tell how she’s paying her bills?”

More clicking of keys. “Everything’s being charged to the studio’s production account. The house, car rental, servants, everything. What a life! Anything else?”

“That’s it for now. Thank you.”

“Let me know if you need anything more.”

Victoria pushed the phone back across the desk. “Could you look up another person for me, a Bruce Vulpone?”

“Any relation to the murdered man?” asked Casey.

“I don’t know.”

Casey worked with her computer. “A lot of Bruce Vulpones. Can you narrow it down?”

“New Jersey or New York, a television producer.”

“Bingo!” said Casey. “Bruce Vulpone, owner of Triple V Cable TV. Vulpone’s Vampire Venture.”

“Is he related to Angelo?”

Casey shrugged. “An awful lot of Vulpones in New Jersey. I’ll see if I can find a connection between them, but I can’t spend any more time on this today.”

*   *   *

That same morning, Finney Solomon, holding a dish towel–wrapped plastic bag of crushed ice against his forehead, sat down to call the three people Dorothy Roche had suggested as references. The first call he made was to the head of Public Works, Daniel Pease.

Engines chugged and whined in the background before a voice came on the line. “Dan’l Pease speaking.”

“Mr. Pease, this is Finney Solomon. I’m a potential investor in Orion Nanopoulos’s fiber-optics company. I’m calling a few people who’ve worked with him, who know him, to find out what they think of him. That kind of thing.”

Someone shouted above the engine noise. Finney couldn’t make out the words.

“Yeah?” said Dan’l.

“You worked with Orion. What’s your impression?”

“He’s okay,” said Dan’l.