The Bee Balm Murders (10 page)

“A good manager?”

“He’s fine.”

The engine noise got louder and it was difficult for Finney to hear. “He work well with his employees?”

“Yup.”

“They like him?”

“Yup.”

“Any problems with him?”

“Look, Mr.—I didn’t get your name. It looks like it’s about to rain and I’m right in the middle of something and can’t talk to you now. Sorry.” And Dan’l disconnected.

Finney got up and went into his kitchenette, drained the meltwater out of the plastic bag, wrapped it back in the dish towel, sat down again at the table he used for a work space, and reapplied the ice pack to his forehead.

He wrote “Daniel Pease” at the top of his yellow pad and under that noted, “Questioned DP about problems with ON, declined to answer.”

Next he called Denny Rhodes, West Tisbury selectman.

“Orion Nanopoulos? He’s a nutcase,” said Denny.

Finney held the ice pack and phone awkwardly between his left hand and shoulder and wrote with his right.

“Anyone who thinks he can get consensus from the six towns on this Island has got to be out of his mind.”

Finney scribbled.

Denny Rhodes went on. “Six towns. Eighteen selectmen, except Oak Bluffs has five, so that’s twenty, six highway departments, six conservation commissions, six planning boards, six zoning boards, six town administrators. Every town’s got a police department, fire department, library, and school. Every last damn town official is in a power struggle to be top frog in this small pond. You think Nanopoulos is sane? If he’s sane now, he won’t be in six weeks, working with the clowns on this Island. Guaranteed.”

Denny’s voice got louder. Finney moved the receiver away from his ear, and the ice pack slipped and fell on the floor. He continued to write as fast as he could.

“Furthermore,” said Denny without waiting for a comment from Finney, not even waiting for an assurance that Finney was still on the line, “not one of them has any technical background, except Tim Osmond, the shellfish warden, who has a master’s degree in marine biology. Not engineering. The shellfish warden is about the only town official Nanopoulos doesn’t have to deal with. They’ll probably insist that he check with the six fence viewers.”

Finney interrupted. “Fence viewers?”

“Damn right. Twelve. Two in each town, all elected. Not one has a technical background. It’s all liberal arts, yoga, horses, and house painting. Not one has any idea what fiber optics is. To them, you’re talking coconut husks. You think he’s going to get to stage one? He’s outta his mind.”

“Fence viewers,” said Finney weakly. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” said Denny. “Glad to help.”

Finney wrote “out of his mind,” and underlined it three times. As he disconnected, water dripped from his face onto his yellow pad. He brushed the melted ice off with his forearm, smearing the ink. “Damn!” he muttered.

C
HAPTER
13

Orion was working on company finances when Casper arrived the next morning. “How’s your college buddy?”

“He’s got a nice place overlooking Vineyard Sound.” Casper settled onto one of the chairs by the drafting table. “Once we sobered up after an evening of reminiscing about the good old days we found we had nothing in common.”

Orion pulled up the chair by the window and sat down. “That’s the way it goes,” he said. “Are you planning on leaving the Island today?”

“I have an appointment to meet with Roger Paulson later. Any suggestions?”

“I don’t want to give away a voting share in the company. I’m adamant about that.”

Casper got up and headed for the door. “I’ll let you know how the meeting goes.”

*   *   *

Roger Paulson lived on Chappaquiddick in a new house overlooking Edgartown Harbor. Casper drove onto the ferry for the minute-and-a-half ride. Now a separate island, Chappaquiddick had been connected to Martha’s Vineyard by a narrow barrier bar until the ocean broke through the bar, forming a channel with wicked tidal currents. On the other side he drove along a maze of sand roads until he came to a white fence that surrounded Paulson’s property. A discreet sign on a gate requested that he press a button to gain admittance, which he did. A buzzer sounded, the gate swung open, and Casper drove the quarter-mile to the huge house with its glittering windows. He pulled into a parking area next to a Lexus, got out with his attaché case, and looked up at the house. A grand staircase led up a half-flight to the ground floor, where a dark-haired man stood, wearing khaki slacks and a yellow knit shirt.

“Come on up,” the man said. “Martin, right?”

“Yes, sir,” said Casper, mounting the stairs.

They shook hands, firm grips. Roger Paulson was shorter than Casper, who wasn’t tall. Paulson was in his mid-fifties and trim, with dead black hair and clear blue eyes that studied Casper.

“Come in. Can I fix you a drink?”

“No, thanks,” said Casper, entering into a foyer that looked like the lobby of an expensive hotel.

Paulson led him into a vast kitchen off the foyer. “We can sit here at the kitchen table. Much more relaxed.”

Casper noticed the commercial stove, the stainless-steel refrigerators. “Nice kitchen.”

“I’m a great cook, you know.”

“No, sir. I didn’t know that, Mr. Paulson.”

“Call me Roger,” Paulson said, sitting at the head of a large table inlaid with intricate patterns of dark wood. “We’re not formal. I suppose you were called Red.”

“Yes, sir.” said Casper. “In elementary school. Always hated it.” He took the chair at right angles to Paulson and set his attaché case on the floor next to him.

“Kids called me Shorty. Same kids wouldn’t dare, now.”

“Kids can be mean,” said Casper.

Paulson sat forward. “You have something to show me.”

Casper brought out the prospectus he and Orion had worked on and handed it over.

Paulson slipped on reading glasses and turned pages, examining each one. The scope of the project, personnel, schedule, permits required and obtained, the budget. He went over budget items one by one without saying a word.

Casper, seated stiffly at first, relaxed slightly. From the kitchen he could see a large dining room with a banquet table. An archway at the end of the dining room led into what was probably a vast living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the harbor, and Casper could see powerboats kicking up curling wakes.

Paulson looked up from his study of the budget. “They’re not supposed to do that, you know.”

“Sir?”

“No wakes in the harbor. Kids. Gotta go fast, get wherever they’re going as fast as they can.” Paulson put his glasses back on and continued to read. At last he set down the prospectus and pushed it to one side.

“What do you want from me? When we talked earlier on the phone, we mentioned seven million.”

“Yes, sir. The total amount of financing we need is twenty-four million.” Casper cleared his throat. He hated asking for money. “We hope you’re still interested in investing the seven million we talked about earlier.”

Paulson leaned back in his chair and twirled his glasses. “As I recall, and correct me if I’m wrong, we discussed my investing seven million in exchange for twenty-five percent…” He held up a hand as Casper started to correct him. “Don’t interrupt me. You negotiated that percentage down to twenty percent. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You had to discuss this with your partner, of course. I assume you’re back with a counteroffer? Stop calling me ‘sir,’ by the way.”

“Right,” said Casper. “Mr. Nanopoulos refuses to give away a voting block in the company.”

Paulson laughed. “Hardly giving away. Seven million?”

“You would be getting a guaranteed return on investment,” said Casper, warming to his talk. “Fiber-optic cable will carry information to and from your dealers and distributors at the speed of light.”

“I know what it can do,” said Paulson. “What makes you so sure your company is the right one?”

This seemed, to Casper, like the right time to bring up Angelo. “You may have heard of Angelo Vulpone.”

Paulson narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I’ve heard of Angelo Vulpone. He’s dead now and good riddance. My wife committed suicide because of Angelo Vulpone.”

“I’m sorry,” said Casper, stricken. “My God.”

“Angelo Vulpone,” repeated Paulson. “Before he was exterminated I understand he endorsed your project. He put it in writing?”

Casper said nothing.

Paulson stood up. “Leave the prospectus with me. I’ll look it over again. But let me tell you,” he stabbed a finger at Casper, “if I put seven million into your company, I’ll want a voting share. Twenty-five percent.”

Casper stood.

“That’s firm.” Paulson set his glasses on the table and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Red.”

*   *   *

Casper, still upset over the “Red” dig and even more upset by Paulson’s wife’s suicide, called Orion on his cell phone but got no signal. He then drove to the office.

Orion looked up as Casper came through the door. “Do I dare ask how it went?”

“Arrogant bastard. He’s back to demanding twenty-five percent of the company and voting shares.”

“You told him he was the one who’d benefit?”

“I did.”

“Well, Casper, you tried.”

Casper tossed his attaché case onto a chair. “I should’ve called him ‘Shorty.’”

“Say what?”

“I’m taking the five o’clock flight.”

“You tell him Angelo Vulpone planned to invest?”

Casper nodded. “Paulson’s wife committed suicide. He claims Angelo Vulpone was responsible. I didn’t ask why.”

“No, of course not.”

Casper picked up his attaché case and left. His footsteps faded away down the outside stairs.

*   *   *

Early on Friday morning, the inaugural day for the Ditch Witch drill, Orion left Victoria’s early. The rain that had been threatening for a couple of days had held off. But now, as Victoria had predicted, the sky darkened and the smell of rain was in the air. By the time he was halfway to Vineyard Haven, drops were spattering his windshield. He told himself it wouldn’t make much difference. The directional drill was a lot less messy than a trenching excavator. He straightened his back and shuddered as he thought of carrying the corpse of Angelo Vulpone through that sea of mud.

He stopped at the ArtCliff Diner for breakfast before heading to the ball field. At the edge of the field he parked and slipped on his foul-weather gear.

The drill was on its trailer, two-thirds of the way across the field, where the route of the fiber-optic cable diverged from the town’s drainage trench. Orion hiked along the line of red sandy clay that filled the trench. Fine misty rain beaded up on his jacket.

Several men, including Dan’l Pease, stood around the drilling unit.

Dan’l nodded to him. “How’s it going?”

“We’ll see,” said Orion.

“Got a call Wednesday from some guy asking about you.”

“Who was it?”

“Didn’t get his name. Cell phone reception is lousy here, as you know.”

“What was he after?”

“He was fishing around, trying to determine whether you were crazy or not. Damn near told him you were, but I hung up on him instead.”

Orion flipped his jacket hood over his head. The rain was coming down in earnest. “Was it Finney Solomon?”

“Never caught the name. I’d like to see how that drill rig of yours works out.”

“We’ll start her up any minute, now. In this sandy soil, we should be able to drill a half-mile today.”

“Can’t hardly beat that,” said Dan’l. “Watch out for that pressurized sewage pipe somewhere around where you’ll be drilling.” He waved an arm toward a section of the field not far from the rig.

“No problem,” said Orion. “My foreman, Mike, is operating the rig. I checked the installation maps and charts. We’re well clear of its location.”

“Wouldn’t trust those maps.”

“I never do. That’s why we’re drilling fifty feet from where the line’s supposed to be, and three feet below it.”

“That ought to clear it all right. The maps aren’t that far off.” Dan’l turned his back on the rain and wiped a hand across his face. “At least, not usually.”

*   *   *

When the rain began, Victoria was at the police station. She hung her raincoat on a hook next to Casey’s yellow foul-weather jacket.

“Orion is using the drilling machine for the first time today,” Victoria said, sitting in her usual chair.

“If it weren’t so wet today, I’d watch,” said Casey.

“There’ll be other times, I’m sure.” Victoria leaned forward. “Any news on the Vulpone investigation? It’s been almost two weeks.”

“I haven’t heard anything. My best guess is the state guys called in the FBI, since it may be a mob killing.”

“I’m sure they’re wrong,” Victoria said. “The murder is more likely to be related to Orion’s cable project. He’s dealing with money and power-hungry people, and either one is cause for murder.”

Casey shrugged. “Money and power fits the mob.” She got up from her desk. “We need to check out another of Mrs. Sommerville’s complaints.” Casey took down Victoria’s raincoat and her own oilskin. “This time it’s about loud music at the Old Ag Hall.”

“What loud music?”

“The contra dance group.”

“Fiddle and harmonica? Heavens! She’s just lonely.”

“We’ll talk to her then. After that we can make our rounds and I’ll get you home in time for lunch.”

Casey shrugged into her own musty smelling jacket.
WEST TISBURY POLICE
was stamped on the back in large black letters. Victoria put on her own coat, picked up her lilac-wood stick, and followed Casey to the door.

“I’ve never known such a rainy July,” said Casey, peering out at the water pouring off the roof.

“It’s good for the garden,” said Victoria.

“How about your bees?”

“It’s not good for them, according to Sean, the beekeeper. They have to contend with mildew.”

“Don’t we all,” said Casey, examining a spotty patch on the sleeve of her jacket.

*   *   *

In his apartment in Union City, Finney Solomon stood up and stretched. He’d been working the phones for the past couple of days with zero success. The venture capital firms he’d contacted wanted a signed contract from Orion before they’d even talk to him, and they wanted to know more about Finney’s credentials than he cared to tell them. Orion
must
sign that contract.