Deadly Nightshade (15 page)

“From Arctic waters to the Antarctic,” she told Liz Tate, who listened intently, carmine-nailed hands folded in her lap.

They cleared the harbor entrance. To the right, Nantucket Sound stretched as far as they could see. Ahead of them, the mainland formed a thin line of white beach, with a thicker line of gray buildings and green trees. Victoria could make out a church spire and a water tower above the trees. To their left, low cliffs obscured their view to the west, but as they moved, the cliffs receded and Vineyard Sound opened before them.

The mate climbed onto the cabin roof and untied the white ribbons that held the neatly flaked mainsail onto the boom.

Victoria leaned back, her hand shading her eyes.

“Wonderful,” she said to Liz Tate. “Just wonderful.”

The mate uncleated the mainsheet and hauled the sail smartly up the mast.

Victoria watched every movement.

“You don't miss a thing, do you?” Liz Tate said.

“I try not to.”

Liz Tate studied her. “I've known people half your age who are not as alert as you.”

“Years of practice.” Victoria tried to look modest.

The sail fluttered and snapped loudly, a giant sheet on a clothesline in the stiff breeze, rising smoothly to the top of the mast, until no wrinkles showed along its edge.

“I'm sure you must have to be a keen observer, to write the way you do.”

“Thank you.” Victoria straightened her lavender slacks over her knees. “There's so much to witness in the world today, to see and hear and feel.”

“Speaking of witnessing, I understand you witnessed the murder last week.”

Howland turned sharply and looked from Victoria to Liz Tate.

“Not exactly witnessed. I heard something on the other side of the harbor, that's all.”

The yacht turned away from the wind, the sails filled, and the midmorning sun shone into Victoria's face. She put her straw hat on again and tied it under her chin.

The boat heeled with a gust of wind.

“Didn't that frighten you?” Liz Tate had her back to the sun. Even though her face was shaded, Victoria could see her wide eyes.

“Things like that don't frighten me.” Victoria, who was on the high side of the yacht, leaned back as the deck tilted, as if her weight would counterbalance the wind in the sails. “Domingo—the harbormaster—and my granddaughter took me over to where I'd heard the commotion, and we found the body, floating.”

“I suppose you heard voices?” Liz Tate said. “People talking or shouting? You must have heard a scream.”

Howland, behind Liz Tate, was staring at the back of her head. Again, Victoria wondered what was wrong with him.

Victoria was aware, too, that Rocky was listening to their conversation, even though he seemed to be talking to the captain.

She went back in her mind over that evening. What exactly had she heard?

“It sounded like three men's voices. I suppose one was Bernie's. I could almost make out the words. I could tell they were disagreeing violently.”

Liz Tate nodded sympathetically. “Must have been terrible.”

“It must have been terrible for Bernie Marble.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Such an awful way to die. Gutted like a fish.” Liz Tate shook her head. Her silky blue-black hair swirled around her face, backlighted by the late-morning sun.

“You knew him, didn't you?” Victoria tugged the brim of her hat over her eyes so she could see Liz Tate's face better.

“Not well. He was the chair of the Harbor Advisory Committee,” she answered. “I saw him often at meetings. He was not the sort I socialized with, of course.”

“Of course,” Victoria agreed.

They had almost reached the Elizabeth Islands, when there was a flurry of activity. The captain called out to the mate and swung the wheel rapidly to port. The yacht tacked into the wind, the sail swung to the opposite side, filled, and the yacht pointed toward the Vineyard's North Shore. When they were close to shore, they tacked again.

“Such a smooth operation,” Victoria marveled.

“We'll turn into the cove in a few minutes,” Rocky said. “We'll anchor without the engine. Ideal sailing weather.”

Victoria's hooded eyes sparkled. She dabbed at a drip at the end of her great nose with a paper napkin. “I never dreamed we'd go out today.”

The captain let out the sail, turned the boat away from the wind, and headed into the cove.

Victoria knew Tarpaulin Cove well from sailing with her grandfather as a girl. The cove was on the south shore of Naushon, one of the Elizabeth Islands. Elizabeth and she often drove to Gay Head, on the western end of the Vineyard, where they could see the islands, a sparsely populated chain that hung from the elbow of Cape Cod. She stood up to see better, holding the back of the deck chair. She could feel the same thrill she'd felt as a girl. She hadn't been here for more than a half century. Surely it wasn't three-quarters of a century? A century had once seemed an eternity. Now she'd almost lived through that eternity. How short a time it had been! She gazed shoreward. She held the brim of her hat to shade her eyes from the glare of sun on water, and held the back of the chair with her other hand. Nothing seemed to have changed. The cove was still cupped by low grassy bluffs, pale gold in the sun. Sheep grazed, as she remembered they had always grazed. She had the eerie feeling they were the same sheep, like the ones they put under the Christmas tree year after year after year. She could hear them bleat mournfully. She remembered standing next to her grandfather in this same spot, listening to that same sound, with the same breeze blowing over them. She remembered the big house with its gables and chimneys, half-hidden by a low hill. The house seemed to be in the same state of disrepair it had been in when she was a child. Her grandfather had said someone should reshingle the roof, or the weather would destroy the house. The roof seemed the same. She could see the tree line beyond the big house, stunted scrub oak and pine. It looked exactly like the tree line of her childhood. She recalled two large trees that rose above the other trees, their configuration looking like an elephant. She'd told her grandfather that. The elephant was still there, unchanged. The island was enchanted. Time had stopped for it, while she continued to pass through days and months and years.

The boat swung into the wind. Sails luffed, slapped loudly.

Victoria snapped back into the present. She turned, to see Howland staring at her with concern, Liz Tate watching her.

The anchor went over the bow, and the wind carried the boat back on the anchor line.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Trumbull?” Liz Tate asked.

“Yes. It's bringing back memories I didn't know I had.”

“It's a beautiful spot.” Rocky looked around at the sheep grazing and the tall grass rippling in the soft wind.

The sail slithered down the mast and was caught in the Lazy Jack, a net of lines. The mate lowered the jib, tucked it into a sail bag, and then tied everything with white ribbons.

“Well done,” Rocky said. “I'll bring lunch out on deck, lobster rolls.”

“I'll help.” Liz Tate followed Rocky into the saloon. They returned with a platter of sandwiches garnished with nasturtium flowers, along with bottles of champagne and crystal champagne flutes.

Howland raised his eyebrows when he saw the champagne.

“There can't be too many bottles of Rothschild '57 around.”

Rocky bowed slightly. “I can't think of a better occasion to share a bottle or two of this.”

The sheep bleated softly, one to another. The boat rocked gently on anchor. The smell of sweet fern wafted from shore. Waves lapped on the beach.

During lunch, Victoria chatted politely with Liz Tate. She talked (and flirted) with Rocky, who complimented her on her pantoums. She was pleasantly surprised that he had recognized the unusual rhyme scheme of the Malay poetry form.

Liz brought up the subject of the murder again. They speculated on the effect of the president's visit on the investigation. Victoria was impressed with Liz's knowledge of politics, and she told her so, and Liz said that was because she lived in Oak Bluffs. She asked Victoria again about finding the body, then listened as Victoria repeated what she'd seen and heard. Rocky had come up quietly behind Victoria. She saw his shadow on the deck and could smell the faint scent of his cologne.

She was going to tell Liz about finding the broken bottle, but before she could, Howland clumsily knocked over one of the delicate champagne glasses.

“Damn it, you ox!” Rocky snapped. Victoria turned in astonishment and saw that Rocky's face was scarlet. He apologized immediately. “I beg your pardon, Victoria.” He turned to the others, who were also staring at him in surprise. “I do beg your pardon, everyone. I was so interested in what Victoria was saying, I was startled.”

The mate cleaned up the fine splinters of broken glass, amid Howland's profuse apologies and offers to replace it.

“No, no, please, Howland. I'm not in the least concerned about the glass,” Rocky said.

Once the flap over the broken glass was over, Rocky said, “I was interested in what you were about to say, Victoria. Please continue.”

As Victoria resumed her recollections, Howland suddenly pointed to a flurry of gulls on the water not far from them.

Victoria stopped talking and stood up. Everyone started to speculate on whether the flurry of gulls meant a school of bluefish or not.

Victoria saw Rocky stare at Howland with a faint smile.

“Looks as though you won't be able to tell us your adventures after all, Victoria.” He turned to the others. “Would anyone like me to bring out the fishing tackle?” he asked.

Once they had finished lunch and Liz and the mate had made an unsuccessful attempt to hook a bluefish, Howland offered to help the mate carry the dishes back to the galley, but he was turned down with some civilized teasing about how clumsy he was.

Victoria reminisced about her childhood with her whaling captain grandfather, and Rocky and Liz listened intently. All told, Victoria had had a marvelous day. The champagne, the lobster, the conversation, the warm sun, the soothing motion of the yacht, and the hay-scented breeze and bleating lamb sounds drifting out over the water had all combined to make her feel mellow.

“I'm afraid we have to start for home now if we want to get back before dark,” Rocky said.

“I wouldn't mind staying here for an entire week.” Victoria stood and gazed shoreward, taking in the sheep, the grasses moving like waves, the old house, everything bathed in the golden light.

As the sun settled over Gay Head, across the Sound from Tarpaulin Cove, they weighed anchor and headed home, the wind behind them.

Howland sat with her, leaving her only long enough to get a wool blanket from below, which he draped around her shoulders. By the time they rounded West Chop, Victoria had nodded off.

She awakened as they pulled up to the dock. The sun was disappearing behind the low bluffs of East Chop and the air had become chilly. Clouds had formed while she was dozing, and they promised a spectacular sunset.

She heard Allison—the dock attendant—and the mate call instructions back and forth as he tossed lines ashore; then she heard the scrape of the steps pushed across the dock to the side of the yacht. She listened as the throb of the engines slowed to a soft rumble.

She folded the blanket and got up stiffly from her deck chair. Several people stood at the foot of the steps, Elizabeth and Allison and the young man who pumped fuel. The other two took her by surprise, Police Chief Medeiros and Meatloaf.

Liz Tate's behavior surprised her, too. Victoria had walked over to the rail, expecting to be the first one off. Instead, Liz pushed by her, almost rudely, and leapt onto the steps before they had fully tied up. She scooted down the steps and confronted the police chief. She spoke to him in a low voice, so Victoria couldn't hear what she was saying, but Victoria could hear the selectman's icy tone and see her anger. The chief's face turned red. He looked up at Howland and Rocky and Victoria gathered at the rail, then at Meatloaf, then back at Liz Tate.

Victoria heard her say, “Don't ever let me see ...” and then the one-way conversation drifted off on the breeze coming off the harbor. The chief jerked his head at Meatloaf, who stood at the bottom of the steps, and the two men sauntered off the fuel dock. Victoria watched them get into a police cruiser, the chief on the driver's side, Meatloaf on the passenger's. The cruiser backed out of its space and turned, the sound of tires skidding on sand clearly audible. She glanced around the parking lot and saw a familiar gray van. She could see a hairy head with wild eyes staring through the grimy windshield at Meatloaf and the chief.

Liz Tate bustled up the steps and back on board. The lines had been secured while Victoria watched the small drama.

“Sorry about that,” Liz Tate said to Victoria with an apologetic smile. “Chief Medeiros was supposed to be elsewhere, doing some business for the selectmen, not hanging around the dock like some boat-crazy kid.”

Victoria looked thoughtfully at Liz Tate. “I don't suppose they see this kind of yacht in the harbor often.”

Liz stared at Victoria for a moment before answering. “They see this one often enough.”

“Why was Meatloaf waiting for us on the dock yesterday?” Victoria sat next to Domingo at the glass-topped table. “It was a perfect day until we tied up, and there he was, waiting.”

Victoria and Elizabeth had stopped on their way into Oak Bluffs. Early-afternoon sunlight filtered through the plants hanging in the window, casting dappled shadows on the table. Domingo was drinking coffee out of a mug marked I

GRANDPA.

“I don't know, sweetheart. He's mixed up in this, but I don't know how.”

“It was odd to see Chief Medeiros there, too.”

“Chief Medeiros was there?.” Domingo paused, his cigarette halfway to his lips. “That's interesting.”

“Who's running the hotel now that Bernie is gone?” Elizabeth asked. Victoria toyed with the place mat in front of her.

“The Chief, I would imagine. Bernie and he were partners.”

“Maybe he wanted to invite us to take showers.” Victoria's face wrinkled into a smile. “Five dollars each.”