Deadly Nightshade (9 page)

“I haven't seen much of Victoria since the murder,” Chief Casey O'Neill said to her sergeant, who was sitting at the desk across from hers, which he shared with the two patrolmen. Casey leaned back in her chair and lifted coppery hair away from her uniform collar. “She knows who's related to whom, so I don't make insulting jokes about someone's third cousin twice removed.” Junior grinned, eyes turned down, mout turned up. His pale mustache seemed to have been pasted on to him to make him look grown-up.

“That was my father's sister-in-law's second cousin,” he said. “It's okay to insult 'connections'.”

“I'm learning. After I've been here a few more years, maybe I'll understand the politics of this town.”

Junior was filling out monthly reports. He erased something vigorously, then brushed eraser crumbs off his desk with the side of his hand. “Since Victoria heard that scream, she feels personally responsible for the investigation.”

“She would,” Casey said.

Junior scooped a handful of blunt pencils from his desk and took them over to the pencil sharpener screwed to the frame of the window that overlooked the pond. “She also feels she needs to protect her granddaughter after the divorce. I guess it was pretty messy.”

“Tell me about it.” Casey leaned back in her swivel chair. “How's your dad these days?”

“He's got a one-man show of his landscapes this fall.”

“All right!” Casey said.

When Ben Norton, Junior's father, retired as chief of police, Junior assumed he would succeed his dad. Instead, the selectmen hired Mary Kathleen O'Neill, from off-Island.

After the first buzz of astonishment, the village settled down and waited. Casey was not one of them; she was trained in big-city crime. Wait and see, the village said, see how her graduate degrees equip her to handle wandering grandfathers, missing bicycles, farmer's market parking, and emergencies down unmarked dirt roads.

Junior had been ready to quit and move off-Island. But he, too, waited. The new chief was making an effort to understand her new town and its people. After six weeks, Junior stayed on.

He lined the pencils up on the windowsill and inserted them one at a time into the hand-cranked sharpener. In the pond, the pair of swans and their three half-grown cygnets were feeding, their long necks immersed in the shallow water, their tail feathers in the air. The cygnets' white adult feathers showed raggedly through gray baby down. On the other side of the pond, tall stalks of joe-pye weed had opened mauve blossoms.

“I suppose we won't see much of Victoria until she solves the murder ?” Junior turned from the window to the chief.

“There's not enough action in West Tisbury for her at the moment.” Casey keyed numbers into the computer. “These were supposed to save paperwork, not make more,” she muttered.

“How's she getting to Oak Bluffs, now she's lost her license?” Junior blew shavings off a newly sharpened pencil.

Casey looked over her shoulder. “She hitchhikes. I picked her up on Old County Road the other day. Thumbing.”

Junior laughed. “It's those long legs of hers,” he said. “The first car that passes picks her up. Every time.”

The phone rang. Junior put the pencils down and picked up the receiver. “West Tisbury Police Department, Sergeant Norton speaking.”

The chief, who had turned back to her computer, could hear a man's voice and make out an occasional word. She heard the name Victoria a couple of times.

“That was Domingo,” Junior said when he hung up the phone.

Casey sighed and stood. She wiped the dust off her polished boots on the back of her trousers, left foot, right foot.

“Sounds as if we've put a stop to her hitchhiking,” Junior said. “Domingo asked us to keep a watch on her.”

Casey paced the small area in front of the two desks. “We don't exactly have a lot of manpower to spare.”

“We don't need police watching her,” Junior said. “She's got friends. What about the guy who lives behind her?”

“Winthrop Lodge.” Casey picked up a yellow pad and pen.

“He's like one of her grandkids.” Junior brushed the top of his tidy desk. “How about the artist who lives in her attic?”

Casey felt her face redden. “Angelo Santellini.” She turned her back to Junior, pushed her chair under her desk, tucked her uniform shirt firmly into her trousers. “You know, don't you, that Victoria was trying to play matchmaker?”

“You and Angelo?” Junior grinned.

Casey nodded.

Junior laughed. “In a way, her matchmaking worked. Angelo and Winthrop.”

“I wasn't looking anyway.” Casey leaned over, turned off her computer, and sat again. She straightened papers on her desk, put them in manila folders, opened her bottom desk drawer, and set the folders in it. “Let me see the schedule.” Junior handed her a yellow sheet. “Josh or Adam can cruise past her place on a regular basis. I'll drive by when I can.”

“My father has a thing for Elizabeth. I'm sure he'd like to help. Get back in action,” Junior said.

“Your father?” Casey said, surprised. “Elizabeth is your age, isn't she?”

“Younger.” Junior grinned. “He's only thirty-five years older. Lotta life in the old man yet.”

Casey shrugged. “Well, sign him up.” She made some notes on her yellow pad. “Among us, we should be able to cover her for a couple of weeks.”

Junior scribbled with his newly sharpened pencil, occasionally moistening the lead with his tongue.

“Elizabeth is with her at night. If we include Domingo, that makes nine.”

“I'll talk to Elizabeth,” Casey said. “Victoria doesn't lock her doors, of course. I doubt if they have keys.” She sighed. “No one in this town locks doors. The selectmen acted as if I was out of my mind when I demanded a lock for the station door.”

“You're not in Brockton now.”

“That's for sure,” said Casey.

“It's a relief to have a morning off.” Elizabeth was on her hands and knees next to Victoria, both of them pulling weeds in the iris border. “Domingo gets on my nerves after a while.”

Victoria knelt on a padded kneeler with handles that Elizabeth's mother had given her.

“I'd like to stop by his house sometime today to see if we can read those bank slips,” Victoria said.

The weeds rustled under the peonies, and McCavity stalked through the tall growth of red clover and sorrel. He settled on a patch of weeds directly in front of Victoria, ones she was about to pull, and began to wash himself, reaching around with his long pink tongue to clean his shoulders. Victoria laughed, roughed his head with her grimy hand, levered herself up with the handles on the kneeler, and shifted to a new spot. The cat cleaned his head where she'd patted him, then moved again.

“Here's some catnip for him.” Elizabeth pulled up a fuzzy-leafed plant and tossed it to McCavity, who scooped it up, rolled over onto his back, and pawed the catnip with his back feet.

“The ground is nice and soft. Last night's rain was just what we needed,” Victoria said. They pulled weeds companionably, a gentle cropping sound, like animals munching. “I'll pull up this poison ivy. It doesn't seem to affect me.”

“Do you want it on the burn pile?” Elizabeth got to her feet.

Her jeans had a long rip in the right knee, worn through from kneeling in the garden.

“No.” Victoria tossed the shiny-leafed plant to one side. “The oils get carried in the smoke, and if you breathe it in, you may have a problem.”

“In your lungs, ugh.” Elizabeth tossed grass clumps and lamb's-quarter and purslane and red clover, feverfew and mint and digitalis seedlings into a pile at the side for the compost heap. “What's this purple flower?”

“Which one?” Victoria asked.

“It's star-shaped, with yellow centers.” Elizabeth moved peony leaves aside so Victoria could see. “Is it something you're trying to grow on purpose?”

“Nightshade,” Victoria said. “Pull it out.”

“It's poisonous, isn't it?” Elizabeth tugged the plant out by its roots. “Deadly nightshade.”

“Same family as tomatoes and eggplant,” Victoria said, shaking the dirt off the roots of a bunch of grass. “Better wash your hands right away. People have gotten sick from touching it.”

“I'll put it on the burn pile. Guess we don't need it to seed itself any more than it has already.” As she passed McCavity, who was lying on his back like a limp toy, the catnip resting on his soft belly fur, he suddenly reached out and swiped at her jean-clad leg.

“Whoa, McCavity! You crazy cat.” She stepped over the iris spikes onto the grass. “There are enough weird weeds in this border alone to give everyone on the Island itchy rashes, or make them sick, or drive them crazy.”

“Or worse,” Victoria said.

“I can watch Victoria an hour or so a day.” Noreen and Domingo were sitting at the glass-topped wicker table and she was making a list on a pad of legal paper. They were watching Court TV in a desultory way. A black woman lawyer with heavy horn-rimmed glasses and a red dress gestured at something on an easel. Occasionally, Domingo would look over at the television.

“All right!” he would say. Or “Yas!” Or he would shake his head and say, “Don't do that!” Sometimes, he would laugh.

“Would you pay attention?” Noreen said. “This is serious.”

“I am paying attention, honey. Who do you think called Chief O'Neill?”

“Ernesto can drive by on his way to and from work,” Noreen said. “He could stop in for coffee. Victoria likes him.”

“Glad somebody does.” Domingo leaned back in his chair. “Keep him out of my way for another half hour.”

“Don't talk that way about your son-in-law.” Noreen wrote Ernesto's name. “He's married to your daughter, remember?”

“Yes, honey.” Domingo took off his cap and blinked his eyes.

“You are full of it.” Noreen shook a cigarette out of the package on the table near her, lighted it with a disposable green lighter, and inhaled.

“What about your friend on the board of selectmen?” She looked at Domingo through a screen of bluish smoke.

“Liz Tate is no friend of mine.” He got to his feet and went up the step into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee. “She accused me of harassing her niece.”

“You're shittin' me!” Noreen's blue eyes opened wide. “Allison, the scrawny blond kid? Liz Tate claims you harassed the kid? You?” Noreen started to laugh. “What did you do?”

“I told her to pick up a candy wrapper on the dock. I can't even tell a female employee to pick up a candy wrapper?”

“You told her?” Noreen put her pen down. “How did you tell her, Domingo? With a pat on her fanny?”

“No, no,” Domingo said. “I was very polite. Maybe my voice was a little forceful.”

“Yeah, sure. 'Forceful.' You yelled at her, right? She probably went home in tears and told her auntie.”

“Liz Tate is a scheming broad.” Domingo looked at his wife with his wide-set dark eyes. “Excuse me, honey. Liz Tate is a scheming person. Meatloaf delivered the complaint.”

“What does Meatloaf have to do with all this?”

“He was her messenger,” Domingo said. “I told him— politely, of course—to have Liz Tate put the complaint in writing. I did call him a 'lackey'.”

“Cross her off the list.” Noreen swiped her pen across the name she'd written. “We know a bunch of people who would be happy to watch Victoria.”

“We can't trust half of them.”

“What about your deputy harbormaster? He's out of jail now, isn't he?” Noreen said. “What's his name again?”

“Aggie. Victoria knows him. Add his name to the list.”

“That's what I just said,” replied Noreen, clearly irritated. “How about listening to me occasionally?”

“Yes, honey,” Domingo said.

Victoria opened the cabinet above the stove. “We're running low on coffee. Also, we've run out of coffee cake and cookies.” She closed the cabinet and went from the kitchen into the cookroom, a small room that had served as a summer kitchen when Victoria was a girl.

The afternoon sun poured into the room, touched the bouquet of black-eyed Susans that blazed like orange flame against the red-checked tablecloth. Sunlight touched the pine woodwork and the wide floorboards. Victoria's baskets hung from the hand-hewn beams. Pots of spider plant and Swedish ivy and philodendron curtained the windows. Victoria stepped down carefully into the cookroom, her hands braced on the doorjamb, and sat in her caned bentwood armchair. She fished an envelope out of the trash, then took a pen out of the marmalade jar on the windowsill.

She was starting to write, when McCavity stalked in, sprang into Victoria's lap, turned around, and settled himself, paws curled under him. Victoria patted him absently, and he purred, head up, eyes closed.

From her seat, Victoria could look through the west windows across the field, across New Lane, across the Doane's pasture. She could see the West Tisbury town center a half mile away, the church spire with the sun glinting on the weather vane on top, the roof of the new library above the trees.

“I've never known a time when we had so many callers,” she said to Elizabeth. “While you were at work, Ernesto stopped by. He had a cup of coffee with me and one of your rum raisin muffins. Two, actually. And Howland stopped by. He had two cups of coffee and a muffin. Ben Norton dropped in.”

“Two cups of coffee, two muffins.” Elizabeth pulled another caned bentwood chair up to the table, eased the ripped part of her jeans over her knee, and sat.

“I think he's set his cap for you,” Victoria said. McCavity opened his yellow eyes and stared at Elizabeth. “I've started a grocery list. We'll need to go to Cronig's before it closes.”

“For heaven's sake, Gram, he's older than my dad. Pair him up with Mom, not me.” She ran slender fingers through her hair. “Besides, it's women who set their caps, not men.”

“He's awfully nice,” Victoria said.

“He is. His paintings are glorious, and it's fascinating to watch him at work. But no thanks.”

“You could do worse.” Victoria stroked McCavity. “Do we need more Bisquick?”

“Yes, large size. Why not set him up with Casey? They're closer in age, only twenty years' difference. Then Casey would be her sergeant's stepmother.” Elizabeth laughed.