The Bee Balm Murders (11 page)

He had to get some air. It was raining on Martha’s Vineyard. They could use rain here in Jersey. His stuffy apartment was over a photographer’s studio and consisted of two rooms with only one window. The window opened onto an air shaft shared by a burlesque theater’s fire door. The air shaft began, or ended, in a roof a few feet below the windows. On warm days like today the roof sent up a scent of hot tar, stale cigarette smoke, and urine.

He closed the window to shut out the stench, gathered up the
Wall Street Journal
he’d picked up at the Mansion House, and descended the flight of wooden stairs that led to the sidewalk. Heat rose from the concrete, distorting its rough surface. He turned left, avoiding eye contact with a group of teenage boys in tank tops and baggy pants hanging out in front of the theater, and headed to the overlook, five blocks away. It was only three o’clock, but early Friday commuting traffic streamed past with the dissonant music of tires, brakes, horns, stereos, warbling fan belts, screeching metal …

He waited at a corner for the light to change. When it did, he started across. A horn blared and he leaped out of the way. An angry voice shouted, “Watch where you’re going, buddy!” He shook the folded-up
Journal
at the disappearing car and shouted back, “I had the right of way, asshole!”

Was it just Tuesday he’d been reading this same copy of T
he Wall Street Journal
in a chauffeured Mercedes that floated him along polite roads to that garden of wealth?

He reached the overlook, angry and hot and sweaty and dusty and reeking of exhaust fumes. His head pounded with a combination of the traffic he’d escaped from and the rejections from the firms whose money had seemed so promising, so close, so easy to access.

He found an unoccupied bench, tore out an inside page from the
Journal,
and used it to wipe the seat before he sat down. Below him the Hudson River bore every sort of vessel, from container ships and ferries to small sailboats. Across the river the golden city shimmered in the afternoon heat haze, a magical place of vast sums of money. One of these days that’s where his office would be, directly opposite where he now sat overlooking the river. Money. He would buy a trophy house; no, he’d
build
a trophy house on Martha’s Vineyard. Money, that’s all it took. He would have that money. Angelo Vulpone had taught him well.

As the pounding in his head subsided, he thought about his future with Universal Fiber Optics. In his imagination he took over the company, that easy producer of money. He visualized taking charge, easing Orion out of the picture. Orion might have more than a problem with stress. The head of Public Works had evaded his question. And Denny Rhodes had outright said that Orion was out of his mind. A nutcase. If Orion was crazy, should he be running the company?

Fourteen million dollars, that was Finney’s goal. He couldn’t gamble on a nutcase. This was his first big one. Fourteen million. A sure thing, Angelo had told that reporter. With Angelo’s endorsement the money was there. Just needed a reliable guy heading the project.

Or a reliable woman?

Finney brightened. In his mind, he saw himself running the project. If Dorothy were the titular head of UFO, that would be a doubly sure thing. A female CEO, one with her own money, heading a multimillion-dollar project.

Yes! Finney thrust a fist into the air, startling a nearby pigeon into flight. The pigeon had been strutting toward and away from him for several minutes, easing closer and closer to a possible food source.

Dorothy wouldn’t need technical know-how. He took out his pen and jotted some notes on the margin of the
Journal
. He’d call that lawyer, the last of the three references Dorothy had suggested, simply a formality, find out what he thought of Orion’s mental health. Then he’d call Dorothy, broach the subject of her taking over Universal Fiber Optics. In his mind, Orion was already out of the picture. Better to have all the pieces in place, the paperwork done before breaking the news to Orion. No telling how an unstable guy would react to a woman taking over his company.

He looked across the Hudson to Manhattan, golden and sparkling, and decided not to wait any longer. Investors would not put money into a project run by a nutcase.

Finney kept thinking about Dorothy Roche as CEO of Universal Fiber Optics. What a fine woman. An older woman. An intelligent woman. A rich one. That was key. Money.

He got up from the bench and started walking back to his rooms over the photography studio. How long before he could afford a house like Dorothy’s? Six months? A year? Cars, chauffeur, maid. No cockroaches.

Friday’s traffic had thinned out while he was at the overlook. Couples out for an evening drive along the Palisades had replaced the frenetic drivers racing toward the suburbs and the Jersey Shore.

Dorothy Roche as CEO, Finney Solomon as financial wizard. Finney could see the fiber-optics project take off under his management. Angelo was quoted as calling it a gold mine, and Angelo was infallible when it came to money.

C
HAPTER
14

On their way to pacify Mrs. Sommerville, Victoria brought up Dorothy Roche again. “She’s power hungry and she’s not who she claims to be.”

Casey said nothing. She eased around a farm truck loaded with baled hay.

“I’m sure she knew Angelo,” Victoria continued. “Angelo’s brother, Bruce, is paying all her bills.”

“That doesn’t mean she knew his brother.” Casey crossed over Mill Brook on the narrow bridge and turned left onto North Road. “We’re almost at Mrs. Summerville’s, Victoria.”

“I’ll just bet she knew Angelo,” said Victoria.

*   *   *

Orion hadn’t planned to stay on the site, but he wanted to watch the drill at work, to run it, in fact. He drove the unit off the trailer and tested the various operations. Sweet. Reluctantly, he turned the controls over to Mike Collins, his foreman, who’d waited, not too patiently, for his turn. Barring any unforeseen accidents, underground fiber would be installed throughout Tisbury in six months.

Off and on throughout the day, Orion thought about Victoria and her Lyme disease, and as the afternoon wore on, he became increasingly worried about her. Around four, he called out to Mike, “I need to get home. Go ahead and shut everything down at five. Looks like we’re clear of that sewer line now.” He shouted to his crew above the sound of the machine. “Good job, guys. Have a great weekend. See you Monday.”

On his way home, he picked up a container of quahog chowder and grabbed a bag of oyster crackers, enough for Victoria, Elizabeth, and himself, and propped the container upright among the tools on the floor of his car.

Victoria was in the cookroom, scribbling a poem on the back of an envelope, her typewriter pushed to one side.

“How are you feeling?” Orion asked.

She looked up with a smile. “Do I smell chowder?”

“You do.”

“Then I’m feeling much better, thank you.”

Orion set the container on the kitchen counter.

“Elizabeth is working the late shift. She won’t get home until after midnight.” Victoria started to get up.

“Sit still,” said Orion. “How was your day?”

“Mrs. Sommerville thinks up complaints so we’ll call on her.” Victoria snapped the cover onto her typewriter and set it on the floor. “How was the Ditch Witch unit’s first day?”

“Good,” said Orion. “No problems so far, knock on…” He reached into his pocket and brought out his cell phone. “Nanopoulos here.” A long pause. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He closed the phone and put it back in his pocket, frowning. “Guess I spoke too soon.”

“A problem?”

“You might call it that. Ten minutes of five on a rainy Friday night, we hit a sewer line, a plastic line carrying raw sewage under pressure.”

“Ouch!” said Victoria.

“‘Ouch’ is right. The line was three feet below where it was supposed to be and more than fifty feet south of where it was supposed to be and we drilled right through it. What are the chances of that happening?” He grabbed his still-wet foul-weather gear from the rack in the entry. “Guess you’ll have to eat alone.”

“You’ll want a shower when you get home,” said Victoria. “I’ll put out fresh towels.”

*   *   *

Orion arrived home shortly before two in the morning. Victoria was asleep in her chair, her mouth open, snoring gently. Orion hated to wake her. He dropped his wet and smelly clothes into the washing machine, sure she would forgive him for using it this one time, and took a long, hot, welcome shower. He wrapped himself in one of her thick towels, climbed up to his attic room, where he tugged on a clean shirt and sweatpants, and came down to put his chowder in the microwave to heat.

In the parlor he gazed down at Victoria, touched that she’d waited up for him. Softly, he asked, “A cup of hot cocoa, Victoria?”

She awoke with a start, smacked her lips, and brushed her hand over her mouth. “What time is it?”

“Almost two in the morning.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I want to hear how you made out with the sewer pipe.” She smoothed her corduroys over her knees. “Hot cocoa would be nice.”

“The sewer pipe is taken care of. I’ll tell you all about it.” The microwave beeped. “My chowder’s ready.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much left.”

“There’s plenty.”

Victoria yawned, got up stiffly, and took a few steps to limber up. The fire she’d lighted earlier had died down to glowing coals. She thought about leaving it for the night, then decided Orion might like the comfort of a fire. She wadded up newspaper, added kindling and a few small logs, and waited until it relit itself with a swirl of smoke and a snap of flame. By the time Orion returned, the fire was blazing cheerfully.

“Just what I needed.” He handed her the cocoa, then stood with his back to the fire spooning up his chowder.

She wrapped her hands around her mug. “How in the world did you fix it?”

“I called Dan’l Pease, who heads Public Works. He shut off the pumps to stop the flow of sewage.” Orion set his soup bowl on the small table next to his chair and sat down. “The guys working for me had to cancel their Friday-night dates and they hand-dug six feet down in the pouring rain to the break in the line. They worked knee-deep in sewage, cut out the section we’d drilled through, spliced in new plastic pipe, and filled in the hole.”

“They deserve medals,” said Victoria.

“They deserve good-sized bonuses, which they’ll get,” said Orion, stirring his thick soup. “Thanks for waiting up. After an evening like this, it was good to get home and see the lights on and you snoozing in your chair.”

*   *   *

On Saturday, Elizabeth made a late breakfast. Orion retold his night’s adventure.

Victoria said, “I haven’t had a chance to tell you, Orion. I’ve got information about your man next door.”

Orion looked up from the blueberry pancakes he’d heaped on his plate.

“He’s renting, he’s apparently single, and the reference he gave to the Realtor was Dorothy Roche.”

Orion went back to his pancakes. “I’m not surprised. A wealthy woman like that has workers who need housing.”

“He rented the place a week after you rented your office and garage.”

Orion studied her. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Dorothy isn’t who she pretends to be.”

“I know how you feel about her, Victoria.”

“It’s more than feelings. I have proof that she’s not who she says she is.”

Orion got up from the table, pancakes half-eaten, and took his plate into the kitchen. “I’m off to work.”

Victoria pushed her chair away from the table. “You’re dealing with millions of dollars. Casey checked for Dorothy on the Internet, and—”

“I’m really not interested in what you and Casey think about Dorothy. Thanks for breakfast.” With that, Orion left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

“Sounds as though you touched a nerve, Gram,” said Elizabeth. “What were you about to tell him?”

Victoria folded up her napkin and set it beside her plate. “The only Dorothy Roche Casey could find is a teenage television actress who acts in vampire films made for preteens by a studio run by a Bruce Vulpone. The Dorothy we know is charging everything to that same television studio as though she is the actress.”

“Why won’t Orion listen? He’s a reasonable guy.”

“Pheromones,” said Victoria.

*   *   *

Orion, frustrated by Victoria’s bias against Dorothy Roche, buried himself in work. He slept on his office cot on Saturday night. For the past couple of days he’d neglected his paperwork, and it had piled up—permit applications from various boards in all six towns, requests from the
Island Enquirer
for information, state and federal government forms to fill out, and constant adjustments to the budget spreadsheet. By Sunday night, he’d reduced the pile considerably. Fortunately, he and Donald Minnowfish had become coffee drinking buddies, and the tribal antiquities representative seemed to have forgotten about the permits he’d demanded. Nevertheless, Orion insisted on a tribal member being present whenever they worked.

Occasionally he’d look down on the driveway of the house next door, but only when he was at the desk where the phone was. At one point he saw the SUV pull up and the guy enter the house. Big house for a single guy.

For the most part, Orion forgot about the man next door. He sorted papers and spread them out on the drafting table in the center of the room. He finished with most of the paperwork and concentrated on the budget.

The budget worried him. He’d had to adjust the figures constantly as the project moved along. After suffering much too long with it, he called his partner on Sunday night.

“Don’t you believe in taking a day off?” Casper asked. “I’m sitting here with my feet up, drinking a Scotch and watching the game. Time you did the same.”

Orion snapped. “I’ll take time off when we fund this.”

“That’s why we’re talking to Solomon,” said Casper.

“Listen to me, Casper. The guy smells.”

There was a long pause before Casper responded. “What’s the problem?”