Deadly Nightshade (28 page)

Howland turned back to Liz. “What did you have against Dojan? Did you think you had to get rid of him because he was onto your scheme? You botched that big-time. Dojan didn't have any idea of your involvement.”

Liz Tate looked from Victoria to Howland. “I came here only because Domingo was so insistent. Not to be insulted.”

Victoria lifted her mug to her lips and watched Liz Tate over the rim.

“I think you know what an angry Chief Medeiros can do,” Howland said. “It's not pretty. You were wise to take Domingo's advice. Stay out of the chief's way until he cools off. Perhaps you can discuss things with him then.”

“This conversation is too strange.” Liz Tate pushed the chair back and stood.

“Let me tell you a story. It made things much clearer to the chief.” Howland reached into his back pocket, withdrew his black leather folder, flipped it open, and held the DEA badge and ID out for Liz to see.

Liz Tate examined it and sat down again.

“Where's he going in such a hurry?” Shipyard was at the corner table in the ArtCliff Diner. He stood up and went over to the window as the cruiser sped by on Beach Road.

“Who was it?” Beanie slurped his coffee. “That black cop who's been causing all the trouble?”

“The black cop didn't make the trouble. It was that jerk-off redneck patrolman.” Red reached for the sugar bowl, dumped two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, and stirred vigorously.

Shipyard returned to the table. “It was the Oak Bluffs po-leece chief himself.”

“What's he doing in this neck of the woods?” Red put the spoon on the table and took a sip.

“Who knows?” Beanie said.

“Tough about his kid. I hear he's taking it hard.” Red set the mug back on the table.

“Can't blame him. The kid was a handful, but still in all...” Shipyard studied a puckered spot on the plastic tablecloth where someone had spilled something hot.

The three were respectfully silent for a moment.

“Anything happening with the investigation into Bernie's murder?” Beanie asked. “And Meatloaf's? Haven't heard a word about that since they arrested that”—he looked up and saw Dotty, hands on her hips, glaring at him—”that Latino harbormaster.”

“He wasn't even on the Island when Meatloaf got it,” Shipyard said. “The cops released him.”

Dotty brought menus and swiped the tablecloth with her damp rag. “Want to hear today's specials?”

“Might as well.”

“Meat loaf with mashed potatoes, side dish of green beans. Apple pie for dessert,” she recited.

“Meatloaf.” Red looked down at his knife. “Meatloaf.”

“That what you want?” Dotty looked around the table. “Meat loaf? All of you?”

“No. We was just talking about him,” Beanie said. “I don't feel like meat loaf. What else you got?”

“Liver and onions. Chicken-fried pork chops. Chowder.”

“The chowder fresh?” Red asked.

“You know it is. Dojan Minnowfish brought me a bushel of quahogs last night.”

“He outta jail?” Beanie asked Shipyard.

“He didn't do nothing. Tied one on is all. Had him in there until he dried out.” Shipyard handed the menu back to Dotty. “Chowder. As long as it's not that New York stuff you served couple years back. Watery vegetable soup was all it was.”

“I made this with milk, potatoes, onions, lots of clams, and salt pork. A half cup of quahogs in every bowl.”

“Yeah, I'll take that.”

“Same for me,” Red said.

“Same here.” Beanie passed his menu to her.

Shipyard looked up as a siren sped past. “There he goes again, back the way he came. Looks like he's about to have a stroke.”

“Who's he know lives this way?” Beanie said.

“That selectman—selectwoman—selectperson—whatever you call them now—has a place on Hatch Road.”

“Hatch Road? Where all the beautiful people live?”

“Where does she get the money to live there?” Beanie asked. “I'm in the wrong business, that's for sure.”

“They paying selectmen that much these days?”

“Could be. That town's crazy enough,” Shipyard said. “Wanna run for Oak Bluffs selectman, Beanie?”

“No way. I ain't that crazy.”

“Ex-husband's money, I think,” Red said.

“She's a cold fish. He's lucky to be rid of her. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.”

“She feels the same about you, Beanie,” Shipyard said.

“Here you are, boys.” Dotty had three heavy white china bowls of chowder lined up along her left arm, and a larger bowl of chowder crackers in her right hand. She set the bowls in front of the men, the chowder crackers in the middle of the table. “Anything else? Salad? Coleslaw? Apple pie?”

“More coffee.” Beanie held out his mug.

“A slice of pie later,” Red added.

Allison heard heavy footsteps on the stairs outside her third-floor room over the Sand Bar, and she opened the door a small crack, to see a red-faced Chief Medeiros on the other side.

“Where's Liz Tate?” he demanded, tugging off his sunglasses.

“I don't keep track of my aunt.” She held the door open a crack, one hand on the knob, the other flat against the door.

“I need to find her, kid, immediately.”

“How am I supposed to know where she's at?” “Let me in, kid.” He pushed the door open against her hands, backing her into the room. Allison tossed her hair out of her eyes and set clenched fists on her hips as he strode into her space. Her aunt was the only person she'd ever let see her room.

Allison had been working at a small rickety table under the window. She had stuck a paintbrush behind her ear; a daub of blue paint flecked her cheek.

A hot plate on the floor under the table was plugged into a tangle of extension cords. The Raybeez blared at top volume from the stereo. The TV blasted discordantly.

Much of her floor space was taken up by an unmade futon. Her teddy bear sat on a shelf above it.

She had taped up on the wall her watercolors and pen and ink sketches of Oak Bluffs scenes, most of them views around the harbor—boats, the Harbor House, the harbormaster's shack, the gingerbread houses.

The chief stood in the middle of her floor and glanced around. “Your aunt do those?” He spoke above the cacaphony, nodding at the drawings on the wall.

“They're mine.” Allison kept her hands on her hips.

He looked around her room, his eyes poking into all her stuff. “I need to find her, kid. Your aunt.”

“You don't see her here, do you?” She tossed her head, her hair swinging away from her face.

“I've got business with her.” The chief's face flushed an unhealthy red. He spoke loudly, trying to be heard above the noise. “Where is she?”

“How am I supposed to know? Try the Town Hall.”

“She comes by here, call me. Understand, kid? Here's my card. That's my pager number. Reach me anytime.”

Allison took the card.

“You understand, call me?”

“Maybe.” Allison looked down at the card.

“Maybe, nothing. Call.”

“Sure, sure.” Allison held the door open until he stepped into the hall and clumped down the wooden stairs to the ground floor, his footsteps shaking the building as he descended.

She made a fist and shook it at his back.

When the phone rang, Victoria answered. Howland and Liz sat silently at the table, Liz staring at her coffee mug, turning it around in circles on the cloth. Howland had gone through his act, telling Liz his tale of drug smuggling and murder. She'd protested, demurred. Acted angry and hurt and puzzled.

Howland had been courteous and distant. Victoria followed his diplomatic maneuvering, a side of him she had never seen before. The fencing had gone on for a half hour before the call came.

“Domingo, I'm glad to hear from you.” Victoria said.

Liz and Howland both looked up.

“Allison called you?” Victoria glanced at Liz. “Yes, she's here. Do you want to talk to her?” She waited for Domingo to finish what he was saying. She looked at her watch. “I imagine he'll stay until Elizabeth gets home.” She looked questioningly at Howland, who nodded, and then she hung the phone back on the wall.

“That was Domingo. Allison called him just a few minutes ago. The chief is looking for you, Liz.”

“Well, I guess that settles it.” Liz Tate stood. “Show me to my room.”

“After we finish our little talk,” Howland said.

“I don't want to hear more.” Liz moved toward the kitchen.

“Perhaps you don't want to hear more, but I have one hell of a lot more to tell you.” Howland's high cheekbones had bright spots of color. “Sit down and listen to me. You're in serious trouble, lady.”

Liz sat.

“You have a choice.” Howland pushed his chair back slightly. “Prison, on the one hand, or the wrath of two powerful enemies you've made, Rocky, with his subtle ways of handling problems, and Chief Medeiros, who is less subtle.”

“I have no problem with Rocky,” Liz said sulkily, tracing a line on the tablecloth with her finger.

“You think not?” Howland fixed her with a bright stare.

“I have no problem with Rocky,” Liz repeated.

“More coffee?” Victoria asked, getting up from the table.

Liz Tate shook her head. Her hair swirled around her face.

“We know where you got the atropine you put in the fudge. Nightshade berries. We collected the plants from your garden and can identify where berries were detached from the stems. The decorative swirls on your fudge are your own unique touch. The ladies who run the church fair identified the fudge as resembling yours. We've traced the chocolate, the sugar, and the cream you used to the market on Circuit Avenue, where they know you and recall your purchasing them. We found the man to whom you gave the shopping bag, the man who gave the bag with the fudge in it to Louie. Whether you intended to kill the chief's son or not, this is murder.”

Liz Tate spoke softly, still tracing her fingernail along a pattern on the tablecloth. “It wasn't meant for Manny. What do you want me to do?”

“Testify against Rocky,” Howland said without emphasis.

“My God! Never.” Liz stopped running her fingernail along the tablecloth and looked up. “You know what he'd do to me?”

“I can imagine,” Howland said dryly. “Care to think about what the chief will do to you?”

Liz Tate put her head in her hands. Her hair cascaded over her face, hiding it.

Howland said nothing.

Victoria fiddled with her cup.

McCavity stalked into the room and began to wash himself, one leg high in the air.

Victoria looked down at the cat with a faint smile.

Howland folded his arms over his chest. “Dare I say you made your own bed?” He leaned back in the chair. When he saw Victoria's expression, he set the chair back on its four legs. Liz stood, paced the small room, sat again. McCavity stopped cleaning himself long enough to stare at her. He stretched, yawned, investigated the wastebasket, leapt into it, and curled up, a ginger-colored mound.

“What do you have in mind?” Liz said in a small voice.

“I have a typed confession.” Howland rummaged through his green canvas briefcase and brought it out. “In this, you explain in detail how you attempted to kill Dojan, believing that he knew you were involved in the drug-smuggling scheme, and how you killed Fatso Medeiros instead.”

“I didn't mean to kill him.” Liz lifted her head.

“You intended to kill Dojan, didn't you?”

Liz put her head in her hands again.

“You intended to kill, and you did kill. You killed the chief's son in a most unpleasant way. Doesn't matter who you intended to kill; someone died as a result of your actions.” He put the typed confession in front of her. “It is against the law to kill people. Read this.”

She lifted her head again.

“Make whatever corrections are necessary. I'll call the notary up at Alley's store, ask her to come here to witness our signing it. You, Victoria, and I will sign.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Liz looked up, face contrasting whitely with her black hair and carmine lipstick.

“Use it if I need to.”

“What about Rocky?” Liz spoke so softly, it took Victoria a second to understand what she'd said. “I would never do anything to hurt him.”

“Rocky got you involved in this, didn't he?”

“He trusts me. I would never harm him, will never testify against him, no matter what.”

Howland went on as if he hadn't heard her. “I have a typed affidavit explaining your relationship with Rocky, and your role in the drug operation.”

“And I'm to read it, make corrections, and sign.”

Howland said nothing. He held the pen out to her.

“I can't do it. He loves me.” She put her head down on her arms. “And I love him. He asked me to marry him.”

Victoria stared at her cup, eyes half-closed, her wrinkled face a topographic map of disapproval. “He's not likely to marry you if you're in prison for murder.”

Liz lifted her head. “What do you plan to do with this affidavit?”

“We use it in court with other evidence to lock up Rocky for a long, long time.”

“My God!” Liz paled.

“I can recommend a lesser sentence for you on the basis of your cooperation.”

“When I get out, my life won't be worth a damn.”

“Probably not,” Howland said. “However, it's likely that Rocky will get a life sentence. The chief will be spirited away to some unknown place in a witness protection program.”

The kitchen door opened and Elizabeth came in. The American flag stood out sharply on her starched uniform sleeve. She stopped when she reached the cookroom door.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt.”

Victoria saw Elizabeth's puzzled expression as she glanced from Howland, whose face was grim, to Liz, who was staring, white-faced, at her folded hands, and then to Victoria.

Victoria pushed herself away from the table, got slowly to her feet, and said to her granddaughter, “We need to get the downstairs room made up.”

“Mr. D. trusts you alone in this place?” Louie had come into the shack where Allison was working with a pile of receipts.

“He put me in charge for a couple of hours. I'm hardly alone. Have you looked around the harbor lately?”