Deadly Nightshade (22 page)

They walked to the kitchen door. In the entry, tucked under A shingle next to the WELCOME FRIENDS sign, was a yellow paper.

“What's that?” Domingo nodded at the paper.

“The fuel bill.” She tugged the yellow slip out from under the shingle. A second folded paper fell onto the brick floor. Victoria picked it up. “Here's a note from someone.”

“From Packer's Oil?” Domingo leaned over her shoulder.

Victoria unfolded the paper. “No. It's not signed.” She turned it over. “I don't recognize the writing. Let's go inside. I'll turn the light on so we can read it.”

“You got a generator?”

Victoria laughed. “I wasn't thinking.” She set her pocketbook on the ancient captain's chair inside the door. “I suppose there are advantages to electricity. I'll get candles.”

“Where is everybody?” Domingo walked into the living room and back into the kitchen. “The guy in the shack out back?”

“It's not a shack; it's a cottage. He works late.”

“What about the artist in the attic. Angelo?”

“He went to Boston this morning to see the exhibit at the Fine Arts Museum.” Victoria felt her way through the darkening rooms, reached the front hall, and returned to the kitchen holding two brass candlesticks with stumpy half-burned green candles. “He planned to be back on the afternoon boat, but I'm sure the ferries weren't running in that storm.”

Domingo lighted the candles with his Zippo and picked up the paper that Victoria had dropped on the kitchen table.

“Lined paper. From a stenography notebook. Why don't you see what it says before I leave.” Domingo walked into the cookroom, opened the door into the bathroom, looked in, and shut it again.

Victoria held the note so the candlelight illuminated it. She read to herself, then read again.

“What does it say, sweetheart? Read it out loud.”

“I can't.” She handed the paper to him.

Domingo held the paper in one hand, took his glasses out of his pocket, shook them open, and put them on his nose.

“ 'You like what happened to your granddaughter today?” it says. 'Better not recall too much more'.” He glanced up from the paper over his glasses and his dark eyes met Victoria's. He continued to read. “'She could be number three.'”

“'Number three'?” Victoria moved her pocketbook to the floor and sat down in the captain's chair.

“I suppose that's a reference to Bernie Marble and Meatloaf.” He studied Victoria's solemn face before he continued. “I'm taking this note, if you don't mind.” Victoria shook her head. “I want to talk to your police chief.” He reached into his pocket for an envelope and examined it briefly. Victoria saw it was from the IRS. He put the note into it, then put the envelope back into his pocket.

“Those accidents that happened to Elizabeth today weren't really accidents, were they?” Victoria leaned against the back of the chair. It had grown dark outside, and the candles made an island of light in the kitchen. Her strong features were accented by light and shadow, her large nose, her deep-set eyes. She stared into the candlelight.

“Not likely,” Domingo said. “Someone thinks you're getting too close, afraid you'll recall too much and put it together.”

“It's true.” Victoria clasped her hands around one knee of her threadbare corduroy trousers. “Things do keep coming back to me.” She stared into the flickering candle flames. “I heard a boat that night, too, I'm sure.”

“It's more than your good memory, sweetheart. Someone thinks you're onto something.”

“But I have no idea what that something is,” Victoria said.

“Let me say the same thing to you that I said to Dojan. Don't tell anyone what you remember. They tried to scare you, didn't they, spooky looks and car chases? But they didn't.” On the other side of the table, Domingo's dark face blended into the shadows. Only his eyes showed, gleaming in the soft light. “Now they're attempting to hush you up by going after your granddaughter.” Domingo walked over to the east door and peered out into the blackness. “They tried to kill Dojan today, and it backfired.” Lights from cars passing on the road flashed across the wall, lighting the room briefly before they moved on.

Victoria picked absently at a rough spot on the back of her hand. “Why would anyone want to harm Dojan? He's not a threat to anyone. What do they have against him?”

Domingo turned away from the east door, where he'd been staring out into the darkness. “They have a good reason to get him out of the way. He talked too freely at the jail when I was in the holding tank with him.”

Victoria waited for him to explain.

“I'll tell you eventually. It's as well you don't know now.”

“For heaven's sake. I'm not a child.”

Domingo grinned and his white teeth reflected the candlelight. “No, I guess not.” He became serious again. “I'm worried about you and your granddaughter. Whether you like it or not, I want you to stay with me and the wife for a couple of days.”

“We don't need to do that.” Victoria's jaw was set stubbornly. “Winthrop should be home shortly. And if the boats start running again, Angelo will be home soon, too.”

She pushed herself out of the captain's chair and faced Domingo across the candles. “I'm worried about Elizabeth. She wasn't happy about working with Allison tonight.”

“No one will try anything as long as Allison stays there.”

“Allison is hardly an ally.” Victoria stood straight so she could look into Domingo's eyes. “What about her lawsuit?”

“Don't blame her for the lawsuit. It's her aunt's. But I'm more concerned about you right now. I have to talk to your police chief. I also need to check on things at the harbor.” He looked out of the east door again. “I hope they get the electricity back, and soon. This is not good.”

Victoria watched him for a few moments. “Can they actually carry out a threat against Elizabeth?”

“Sweetheart, we won't let them,” Domingo said. “Wonder why they left that note? Stupid of them.”

He picked up the phone, held it to his ear, and hung it back up. “Dead. I should have known. Come with me now. I don't want you alone in the house.”

“I'll be quite all right,” Victoria said testily. “It won't be the first time I've been alone in this house.”

“I don't want it to be the last time, either. Get your nightie and toothbrush. And Elizabeth's. You're staying with the wife and me tonight and tomorrow.”

“This is a lot of foolishness.”

“Three people are dead. Someone is sending you threatening notes. No, this is not foolishness. You're coming with me.”

Victoria thought a moment, then shook her head and wrote a note to Angelo or Winthrop, instructions on feeding McCavity.

She carried a lighted candle with her up to the dark bedrooms on the second floor. Domingo waited at the foot of the stairs.

Victoria remembered how, as a child, she used to watch the shadow of the railing progress along the wall when her aunt went downstairs with a candle after she'd tucked Victoria into bed.

She found her small blue Samsonite suitcase in the attic, and then packed her underwear and nightgown and Elizabeth's pajamas.

She set the suitcase down by the kitchen door and Domingo took it out to the car.

When they pulled into the two-car parking lot at the West Tisbury police station, the ducks and geese had hunkered down on the crushed oyster shells, settled for the night, their heads tucked underneath their wings. When Domingo's car lights flashed on them, they untucked their heads, got to their feet, stretched their necks, hissed, honked, and quacked.

The racket brought Chief O'Neill to the door of the police station. She was silhouetted by the light of two small emergency lamps. Behind the station, the generator throbbed. The chief escorted them inside and Victoria sat in the chair in front of her desk. Domingo took off his cap and looked around the small station house, at the two desks, the potbellied stove, the computers, a calendar on the wall that showed fluffy kittens playing with a ball of yarn. He laughed out loud.

Victoria looked questioningly at him.

“I was thinking what my partner, Joe, would've said if Chief Kelly had hung a kitty-cat calendar in our station house.”

The windows that overlooked the Mill Pond were so dark, Victoria could see only her own reflection and Domingo's and Casey's in the glass. After a moment, Domingo said, “You heard about Chief Medeiros's son?”

“I heard something on the scanner. What happened?”

“He died at the hospital this afternoon. During the storm.”

“No!” Casey said.

“He was in jail. Suspected poisoning.”

“What was he doing in jail?”

“DUI and possession of a controlled substance.” Domingo leaned forward in the chair and laced his fingers together between his knees.

“He was poisoned by fudge I was supposed to have given to Dojan, who was also in jail,” Victoria said.

Casey thumped the end of her pen on the desk. The point of the pen went in and out, in and out as she tapped.

“Is this related to that Oak Bluffs murder?” Casey asked.

“It's gotten more complicated.” Domingo took Victoria's note out of his shirt pocket and handed it to the chief.

Casey read the note, frowning.

“It was stuck under a shingle in the entry,” Victoria said.

“And you don't think it's some crank?”

Domingo shook his head. “Victoria and her granddaughter are staying with the wife and me for a couple of days. Can you keep an eye on her house? Something should break soon.”

“As soon as the phones are back, I'll talk with Ben,” Casey said. “He misses police work.”

Domingo stood and saluted the chief. “I know all about it.”

The afternoon shift had been busier than Elizabeth expected. A fleet of powerboats had come over from the Padanarum Yacht Club, and the boaters had a hundred requests—liquor store, bar, action, best restaurant, girls, car rentals, hotels. Elizabeth was fed up with powerboats and potbellied men and their doll-women. She didn't want to admit, even to herself, that she resented all the tips Allison was amassing. Twenty dollars, ten, fifty, even a hundred-dollar bill. Allison had made, in one sultry afternoon, more than Elizabeth, her boss, earned in a week. On top of it all, Allison was a sullen brat, and Elizabeth had not wanted to work with her on this shift. Damn Domingo!

She tucked her shirt into her shorts, leaned down and retied the leather laces of her boat shoes, and ran her fingers through her hair.

As the storm clouds billowed out of the north, Elizabeth looked up at the sky with concern. She strode down the ramp to the floating dock, then started up the motor on the harbormaster's launch that was tied to the dock.

“Get in,” she ordered Allison, who stepped gingerly into the bow, brushed sand and dried seaweed off the seat, and sat.

Elizabeth steered the boat toward the sailboats moored in the center of the harbor. Allison trailed her hand in the water.

“Cut that out,” Elizabeth snapped. Allison quickly withdrew her hand and put it in her lap, where it made a wet spot on the thighs of her tan shorts.

“When I get alongside this boat, get aboard and check the bow lines. Take this chafing gear with you.” She handed Allison a bundle of thin canvas strips and waxed twine. “Do you have a knife?”

Allison nodded.

“What did you say?” Elizabeth snapped.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Hurry up,” Elizabeth said sharply as Allison balanced herself in the launch. “We have a dozen boats to check.”

Elizabeth wheeled the launch from one sailboat to another. Allison scrambled aboard each to check lines, double them up where necessary. She replaced the canvas strips that protected lines from the sawing motion of a boat riding on a mooring in wind. Allison worked faster and more surely as the storm clouds moved toward them and the wind picked up. Footing on the boats was treacherous. At one point, Allison caught her finger between the bow of a boat and its mooring line. Elizabeth saw her grab her hand and double up in pain, saw her reach into her pocket, take out a tissue, and wrap it around her bleeding finger. Allison, hair blowing back from her face in the steadily increasing wind, didn't even look at Elizabeth. She continued to knot waxed line around the canvas strip.

They finished checking the moored boats, not speaking to each other, and put the launch away in a slip beside the shack.

“Put extra lines on it,” Elizabeth said. “Then let me see your finger.”

“It's okay.” Allison held her hand behind her back.

As soon as they were inside, Elizabeth opened the first-aid cabinet that hung on the wall next to the radio.

“Let's see it.” Allison held out her finger reluctantly. The paper she had wrapped around it was blood-soaked. Elizabeth clipped it off and examined the crushed finger. “It doesn't look too bad. I'll soak it with peroxide and bandage it. You might want to check it with Doc Erickson.”

Allison shook her head, then bit her lip as Elizabeth poured the peroxide over her finger.

Elizabeth looked down at her. “The town has medical coverage. If it still hurts tomorrow, you'd better go.”

The wind picked up, whirling sand and seaweed and kicking up whitecaps in the sheltered harbor. Elizabeth and Allison went out again, heads down in the wind, and walked rapidly along the bulkhead, moving from one boat to another, checking lines, warning skippers, fending off flirtations. By the time the storm hit, the boats were secure and they were back in the shack.

Lightning, thunder, and pelting rain assaulted the small building. The usually calm harbor was a furious mass of breaking waves that crashed against the pilings and shook everything. Sailboats on the moorings bucked like terrified horses. The electricity went out, and with it the computers, the lights, and the telephone. Elizabeth picked up the radio mike, but it was dead.

“Shit,” she said.

“I brought a flashlight,” Allison said. “There's a battery lantern in one of the cabinets.”

“Great,” Elizabeth said sourly.

“There's a deck of cards. We could play gin,” Allison said. “Or hearts.”

“How about Go Fish?”

“I know how to play that, too.”

“Gin, then,” Elizabeth said. “For play money, we can use twenty-dollar bills from the bank bags.”