The Bee Balm Murders (13 page)

“We know,” Victoria said, “the Dorothy Roche renting that house is not the Dorothy Roche she claims to be.”

“However, she lives in Edgartown.”

Victoria stared straight ahead.

Casey went on. “Edgartown is not in our jurisdiction. And, as far as I know, no one has complained about her.”

They passed Whiting’s fields and the New Ag Hall on the left, and crossed the bridge over Mill Brook.

“How can I contact the real Dorothy Roche’s television station?” Victoria asked.

“When we get back to the office, I’ll check the Internet. There’ll be someone at the studio to contact.”

Victoria settled back in her seat. “What is she trying to do? Take over Orion’s company? She doesn’t have any money, as far as I can tell. It’s all outrageous fakery.”

“I’ll treat you to a cup of chowder,” said Casey.

Victoria glanced at her. “You’re not listening to me.”

“I am. When we get back to the station house, I’ll contact the television studio that shows her films or whatever they are.”

“Chowder sounds good,” said Victoria.

*   *   *

Orion drove to the bookkeeper’s office in a small house off Spring Street in Vineyard Haven. He parked in her driveway and went to the back door. Amanda Medeiros opened the door. She was a stout woman in her early fifties with flyaway, prematurely white hair and pale blue eyes.

“Come in, Orion. I need to show you something.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been distracted over the past few days. Must have forgotten to sign—”

“No, not that. Come into my office.”

Orion bent over and untied his boots, kicked them off, and followed her, stocking-footed, across her white-tiled kitchen floor and into her office, with its hand-knotted, beige wool rug.

Her office overlooked a compulsively neat garden, where blue and white petunias and pink geraniums were neatly bounded by a plastic edge.

Orion thought briefly about trudging into Victoria’s parlor with his boots on. Perhaps he should leave them in her entry from now on. But perhaps not. Victoria’s floors were meant to be trod upon.

“You’d better sit down, Orion,” said Amanda, beckoning him to an armchair upholstered in cream and pink satin stripes. Orion eased himself down. Amanda sat and opened a manila folder, the only item on her desk, and picked out the top papers. She swiveled to face him.

Orion rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, his feet flat on the floor. He noted with relief that his socks were clean.

“It was my understanding, Orion, that Ms. Roche’s investment in Universal Fiber Optics was a piece of equipment called a ‘Ditch Witch horizontal directional drill’ for which she was to get a twenty percent share in the company.”

“That’s right,” said Orion.

“She was to pay for the equipment.”

“That’s right.”

Amanda handed him the papers without a word.

Orion took them from her and studied the top one. He looked up. Amanda sat with arms folded across her ample bosom, watching him with those light eyes.

“A bill for payments on the rig?” asked Orion.

“That’s right.” Amanda said. “Billed to your company. Not paid for or billed to Ms. Roche. I paid the bill, not having all the information I should have had.”

“This must be a mistake,” said Orion, slapping the paper with the back of his hand.

“I don’t think so. Check the next page.”

Orion slipped the first page underneath the papers he held. He read the page Amanda had indicated. He read it a second time. He looked up at her again.

“You see what I mean?” Amanda uncrossed her arms and leaned on her desk.

“She owns the title to the drill rig, and Universal Fiber Optics has been paying for it.”

“I hate to say this, but I warned you against her,” said Amanda. “I thought she was just a frivolous, stupid bitch.” Amanda heaved herself out of her chair, hands propped on her desk. “But she’s not. She’s a crafty, scheming, conniving, evil bitch.”

Orion set the papers back on Amanda’s desk with great deliberation, and plopped back into the satin chair.

“My God!” He ran both hands over the top of his head. He smoothed his mustache and dropped his hands into his lap. “I’ve been a fool.”

“I guess,” said Amanda. She sat down again. “Any thoughts on where we go from here?”

“Yes,” said Orion, standing up. “I have a very good idea where we go from here.”

C
HAPTER
17

On Monday afternoon, Finney called Dorothy Roche to sound her out about taking over as CEO of Universal Fiber Optics. In his mind, the company was no longer Orion’s.

“Finney, darling,” Dorothy said after he broached the subject, “We need to talk, face-to-face. Get back here to Martha’s Vineyard as soon as possible. Tomorrow.”

“I’ll have to go over my schedule.” Finney laid the phone down and reached into the cardboard box where he kept his unpaid bills and checkbook. Was there enough in his account to pay for another flight to Martha’s Vineyard?

He paged through the checkbook. The answer was no. His monthly check from one of his clients was due in two weeks. When it came, the check would barely cover the stack of bills in the cardboard box, and the client was beginning to dither. Finney did not need the police on his back. The only way he could afford airfare was to put off paying the credit card bills, even though the finance charges were already killing him.

Fourteen million dollars.

He could raise that easily, if only would-be investors would listen to him. When Nanopoulos signed that contract, he’d get a monthly retainer, and six months from now, the finance charges would seem like nothing. What the hell. Charge the airfare on the latest credit card he’d gotten in the mail and had never used. That’s what he’d do.

“Dorothy,” he said, picking up the phone. “Sorry I had to put you on hold. Another call. Tied up with a mega deal that I expect to close at the end of the week. I can get a flight out of JFK on Friday afternoon.”

“Make it Wednesday, darling.” Dorothy’s voice was silky. “We have a lot to discuss. Let me know what flight you’ll be on, and I’ll have Tim pick you up at the airport. Why don’t you stay at the Harbor View? It’s within walking distance of my house.”

The elegant Harbor View was absolutely out of the question. Finney said quickly, “I prefer the Mansion House.” His gut churned when he thought of the hotel bill. “All right. Wednesday, then. I’ll give you a call with the flight number after I’ve taken care of my other affairs.”

*   *   *

Orion turned off Main Street, parked in back of his place, climbed the outside stairs, and let himself into the light, airy office. He could see the neighbor’s SUV in the driveway. He looked at his watch. Three o’clock.

According to Victoria, Tris Waverley had rented the place after Orion had rented his own office. He’d used Dorothy Roche as reference. After meeting with Amanda, Orion’s infatuation with Dorothy had chilled.

He needed to meet Tris Waverley, this mysterious neighbor of his before he confronted Dorothy. In his present mood he was quite capable of murdering her.

He retraced his steps down the outside stairs, walked across the driveway, and knocked on the side door. Until now, his only view of Tris Waverley had been the top of his head, usually covered by a baseball cap. He knocked again, harder. Footsteps pounded down wooden stairs and the door was flung open by a tall, thin, comfortably homely man wearing thick glasses and a Red Sox baseball hat.

When he saw Orion, the guy swallowed and his Adam’s apple rose and fell. “Help you?”

Orion held out his hand. “I’m your next-door neighbor, Orion Nanopoulos. About time I said hello. Tris, isn’t it?”

“Sure. Yeah.” They shook. Tris’s hand was limp and damp. “Waverley. Tris Waverley. Nice to meet you.”

“Here for the summer?” Orion asked pleasantly, wiping his hand on the seat of his pants.

“The summer. Yeah.” Tris leaned awkwardly against the door frame, blocking the entrance.

“I’ve got a couple bottles of Sam Adams in my office fridge. Why don’t I bring them over.”

“I’m in the middle of something…”

“An hour, then,” said Orion. “Give you time to get to a stopping place.”

The guy swallowed again. His glasses had steamed up. “Why don’t I come over to your place in, say, forty-five minutes.”

“No way. My place is a mess.” Orion was compulsively neat and his office was anything but a mess. “I’ll bring the beer over in forty-five minutes. Give you time to hide whatever it is you’re working on.”

“Look, I…”

Orion turned, said over his shoulder, “Nice to meet you, Tris,” and walked away.

He went back to his office and got on the Internet, something he’d meant to do earlier. He keyed in Tris Waverley. The ElecTris Web site popped up with a picture of Tris and Marylou Waverley and a list of products and services the company offered. Surveillance was on the list.

Orion started to pick up the phone to call Casper, but thought for a moment. He set the phone back into its cradle and reached into his pocket for his cell.

Casper answered.

“Bad news,” said Orion. “Dorothy owns the title to the rig. The bills have been sent to us.”

“We’ve been paying them?”

“Amanda’s got authority to pay anticipated bills. She knew we were acquiring the drill. Eight thousand a month.”

Casper said, “Where does that leave us? What does the contract with her say?”

Orion shifted through papers on his desk. “Says that Dorothy agrees to acquire a Ditch Witch horizontal directional drill in return for a twenty-percent share in the company.”

“Anything say she’s putting up the money?”

Orion took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The word ‘acquire’ doesn’t actually mean she’ll pay, does it?”

“You plan to talk to her, Orion?”

“As soon as I hang up I plan to strangle her. Which brings up another possible problem.”

“I’d better sit down,” said Casper.

“The renter next door used Dorothy as reference. He owns a shop in Quincy that does electronic surveillance.”

“You’re on your cell phone, I take it,” said Casper. “They’re not entirely safe, either, you know.”

“Safer than the landline. You have my cell number.”

“You plan to speak to Dorothy before strangling her?”

“Face-to-face,” said Orion.

“Call me after you straighten this out. Don’t do anything rash. It may be a simple misunderstanding.”

“Unlikely,” said Orion, and hung up. He decided the call to Dorothy didn’t matter, and used the office phone.

“Dorothy,” he said.

“Darling!” said Dorothy. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to stop by for a chat.”

“That’s sweet, darling. Come for a drink this afternoon. Wait a minute.” Orion heard the rustle of papers. “Not this afternoon. What about Friday?”

“Can’t do it. What about tomorrow?”

“Tuesday, hmmm.” More rustling of pages. “Thursday is the best I can do. Around five, would that be convenient?”

“It will have to be,” said Orion.

He spent the next half-hour going over his log of phone calls to determine what sensitive information he’d been feeding Tris Waverley next door.

Most calls were to Casper. They’d discussed finances. He’d shown concern about Finney Solomon. No real problem. The setup was too obvious. Dorothy was smart enough to know he could detect the surveillance. Unless she was smarter than he thought. Did she want him to know he was spied on?

Orion checked his watch, gathered up four bottles of Sam Adams and an opener, and headed for Tris Waverley’s.

C
HAPTER
18

Tris Waverley ushered Orion into the kitchen, a bleak place with yellowing appliances and flickering overhead fluorescent lights, a chrome-legged table with a chipped green Formica top, and two chairs. The refrigerator, which had been humming loudly, shut off with a shudder. In the silence that followed, Orion heard a steady drip.

In an attempt to be light he said, “If that’s hot water, I hope you’re not paying the utility bill.”

“It’s the cold,” said Waverley.

Orion set the Sam Adams on the table and took the chair closest to him, the one with the fewest cracks in its stiff, marble-patterned vinyl seat.

Waverley was leaning against the sink.

“Nice place,” said Orion, shifting his feet to a less sticky spot on the linoleum. “You’re here for the summer?”

“Right,” said Waverley.

“Working vacation?” Orion slid a bottle and the opener across the table. “Have a seat. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” Waverley sat awkwardly on the chair that matched Orion’s and pried off the bottle cap.

“I hear you’re in electronics,” said Orion.

“How’d you hear that?” Waverley ran a hand up and down the cold bottle.

“Word gets around this Island.” Orion opened his own beer. “A working vacation means surveillance, I gather.”

“Look, Mr. Nanopoulos, what I do is confidential.”

“Call me Orion. We’re neighbors, after all.”

Waverley lifted his beer and drank.

Orion said, “Is your sister running your store now?”

Waverley took another swig and set the bottle down. He stood again. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to chat. I gotta get back to work.”

“I don’t think so,” said Orion, leaning his chair back on two legs. “How much is Ms. Roche paying you?”

Waverley choked on his swig of beer. He breathed in and started to cough.

“You okay?” asked Orion, still leaning back in his chair, hands in his pockets.

Waverley coughed some more.

Orion set his chair down on all four legs and leaned forward slightly. “Want a slap on the back?”

Waverley shook his head.

“Lift up your arms. Sometimes that clears your air passage,” Orion said.

Waverley turned his back to Orion and lifted his arms.

“I’m going over to Dorothy’s for drinks on Thursday, as you probably heard,” said Orion.

Waverley coughed again and sat down. “Who
are
you?”

“Not a friend of hers, apparently.”

“Look, I do what I’m hired to do.” Cough. “I’m not the bad guy in this.” He adjusted his glasses.