The Bee Balm Murders (15 page)

Finney stood. “If you’ll excuse me, Dorothy, I have some business to attend to.”

“Tim will drive you to wherever you’re staying now.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Call me, and I’ll have Tim pick you up. Plan on staying for supper. Courtney will fix something yummy.”

After Finney left, Dorothy said, “That was rude of you to talk to Finney that way.”

Orion said nothing.

“He’s really quite brilliant. We can’t antagonize someone as wealthy as he is. Our company…” She chatted about her plans. Orion was having difficulty controlling himself. Her plans! None of her plans involved installing fiber-optic cable. What was she thinking? She stopped talking and eased to the edge of her chair, a bit closer to him. “You’re being awfully quiet, darling. Are you pleased with the Ditch Witch drill?”

“Let’s talk about that.”

“Why so serious? Are you feeling all right?”

In truth, Orion was on the verge of throttling her. He knew exactly where to place his thumbs on her throat. She’d look up at him and smile, thinking what? That he was about to kiss her? What a fool he’d been.

“There’s a mistake on the title,” he said calmly, tucking his hands into his armpits. “The finance company made it out to you.”

Dorothy set her glass on the small table next to her.

“We need to correct it.” Orion reached into an inside pocket of his denim jacket and drew out an envelope.

“I’m really not clever about things like that,” said Dorothy. “Have some cheese, darling. It’s artisanal goat cheese and,” she pointed to the plate in front of him, “these are organic caraway rye crackers from Wisconsin.”

Orion withdrew a sheet from the envelope and stood. “Here’s the title change. Sign here,” he pointed. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“According to my lawyer…” Dorothy paused. “He should probably look at this.”

“No need,” said Orion. “It’s according to our agreement. From now on, bills go directly to you.”

“I don’t know, Orion. My financial advisor…” Dorothy stopped and looked up at Orion.

He continued to hold the change-of-title form out to her. She continued to ignore it.

“The accountant will bill you for the past invoices she mistakenly paid.” Orion slapped the paper on the palm of his hand. “I’m sure you didn’t intend to have the company make those two payments.”

“Darling, there’s some mistake.” She nudged the cheese platter closer to him. “Do try this.”

“When you’ve signed the title over to the company, we’ll complete the paperwork making you a partner.”

“You don’t understand,” Dorothy said. “I acquired the machine, darling. That’s in the agreement we all signed. It said nothing about my paying for it.” She moved closer to him. “That agreement makes me your partner.” She brushed aside the papers he’d set down. “You simply must accept the fact that we’re partners. Universal Fiber Optics will make us millionaires.” Her voice hardened. “You understand, don’t you?”

C
HAPTER
20

It was after seven-thirty, still light, when Orion found himself on the road back to Vineyard Haven. When he left Dorothy’s, he’d driven robotically around Edgartown. He was not sure how he’d gotten away from the house on North Water Street. He had no recollection of saying good-bye to Dorothy. Somehow he’d negotiated the lanes that led out of Edgartown and wound up on the long stretch of road with Nantucket Sound on his right, Sengekontacket Pond on his left. He wasn’t aware of the mellow evening light, the pastel colors of the Sound, the Canada geese circling over the marsh, honking as they settled in for a peaceful night. Bathers, packing up their belongings.

Orion, the soul of patience, the epitome of inner strength, the archetype of composure, drove back to his office, climbed up the outside steps, unlocked the door, and closed it carefully behind him.

He then hurled a tall glass vase against the wall, where it broke into glittering splinters. He heaved a ceramic paperweight at a framed certificate and before the shards fell to the floor he pitched the wine-bottle lamp filled with sea glass, still plugged into the wall socket, against the door. The bulb burst with a flash of bright light and the bottle dropped to the floor, releasing a cascade of green, brown, and white sea glass.

Orion brushed broken glass off his chair with a piece of cardboard, dropped down onto the seat, put his elbows on the drafting table, and his head in his hands. Goddamn that Dorothy. How in hell had he messed up so thoroughly?

He was too preoccupied to hear footsteps on the outside stairs. At first he didn’t hear the knock on his door. The insistent pounding finally registered on him.

“Police!”

“The door’s not locked,” Orion snapped. What in hell were the police doing here?

Broken glass scritched across the floor as the door was shoved in. Sergeant Smalley and a state trooper, both in uniform, stood on the doorstep, silhouetted by the garish colors of sunset. They looked around at the chaos.

“What do you want?” Orion demanded.

“Looks like a war zone in here,” said Smalley, glancing from one shard-covered surface to another.

“Come on in.” Orion felt exhausted, foolish, and apprehensive. Had they found her body so soon? “Have a seat,” he said.

“Mind telling me what happened here?” asked Smalley.

“Stupid,” said Orion, shaking his head. “I don’t want to talk about it. What do you want?” he asked again.

Smalley stepped into the room. “Where’ve you been?” The trooper was behind him.

“Where’ve I been? Why do you want to know?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” said Smalley, hands behind his back, feet slightly apart.

“Edgartown. North Water Street.”

“What were you doing there?” Smalley asked.

“Seeing someone.”

“Who, please,” said Smalley.

“An associate.” Orion started to sweat. They’d found the body. They knew he’d killed her.

“Name, please. Who were you seeing in Edgartown?”

Orion said nothing.

“Mr. Nanopoulos?”

“Dorothy Roche.”

The trooper was taking notes.

“What time did you get to Ms. Roche’s?”

“Five-thirty,” said Orion.

“How long did you stay?”

“An hour.” Orion checked his watch. “I just got back.”

“It’s after seven-thirty now.”

“I drove around.”

Orion heard the sound of pen on notebook.

“You go directly to Ms. Roche’s from your office?”

“Yes.” Looking down, Orion noticed that Smalley’s boots were so highly polished they reflected the colors of the sunset behind him. “Have a seat,” Orion offered again.

Every chair was covered with broken glass.

“No, thanks.”

Orion stood, took his handkerchief out of his pocket. “I’ll clear some of that off.”

“Don’t bother,” said Smalley. “Sit down again. You left from this office. What time?”

“Do I need a lawyer?” Orion asked.

“I don’t know,” said Smalley. “Do you?”

“For God’s sake, are you arresting me?”

“No. At the moment, you’re free to answer or not. Where were you before you left here to go to Ms. Roche’s?”

The trooper looked up from his notebook.

Orion took a deep breath. He glanced at his hands.

Smalley repeated each word deliberately. “Where were you before you left here to go to Ms. Roche’s?”

“I was in the field, working with the drill rig.”

“Where do you keep the rig?”

“Behind Trip Barnes Moving and Storage.”

“That where you were working?”

“No.” Orion stroked his mustache. “We’ve been working at Five Corners.”

Smalley remained in the doorway, hands behind his back, feet slightly apart. “You know the man next door?”

“Tris Waverley?”

Smalley nodded.

“Met him a couple of days ago.”

“Where was that?”

“At his place.”

“What did you and Waverley talk about?”

Sweat trickled down Orion’s back. “What?” he asked.

“What did you talk about?” Smalley repeated.

“His business, electronics. He’s here on a working vacation. We had a beer.” Orion wiped his forehead with the handkerchief he was still holding. Smalley watched.

“He say what the working vacation entailed?”

“Not exactly.” Orion couldn’t meet Smalley’s eyes.

“Not exactly,” repeated Smalley. “What do you mean by not exactly?”

“I asked if he did electronic surveillance.”

Behind Smalley, the trooper coughed. Smalley didn’t seem to notice. “Why did you ask that?”

“I figured someone had hired him to check on me.”

“Why would someone do that?” Smalley had not moved. The sun had set. The trooper was in shadow.

Orion swiveled his chair and looked down on the driveway. Waverley’s SUV was gone.

“Mr. Nanopoulos?”

“I’m engaged in a multimillion-dollar project that a lot of people would like to know more about.”

“Who, in particular?”

Orion allowed himself a grim smile. “You’ll wring that information out of me one way or the other, won’t you?”

“Let’s get back to the question,” said Smalley. “Who did you think was paying Waverley to spy on you?”

Orion swiveled.

Smalley waited.

“Dorothy Roche hired Waverley.”

“Did Waverley tell you that? Or Ms. Roche?”

“I confronted him with it and he admitted it was Dorothy Roche.”

Smalley turned to the trooper behind him, said something too low for Orion to hear, and turned back to Orion. “What relationship is Ms. Roche to you?”

Orion knew he’d have trouble saying it. “A partner.” He swallowed. “In my company.”

The phone rang. Orion looked at it without moving.

“Answer it,” said Smalley.

Orion picked up the receiver. “Nanopoulos here.”

“Casper Martin here. Why are you being so damned formal all of a sudden?”

Orion glanced at the cops. “The state police are here, questioning me.”

“What about? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. What are you calling about?”

“Never mind,” said Casper. “Not that important. It can wait. Call me when you’re free.” Casper disconnected.

The word
free
echoed in Orion’s mind.

He stood again. “What now, Smalley, taking me in?”

“Not at the moment,” said Smalley. “I’d appreciate your not leaving the Island for the next couple days.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“I suppose it won’t hurt.” Smalley turned to the trooper again before he answered. “This afternoon we found the body of your neighbor.”

“My neighbor?” Orion dropped into his chair. “Who?”

“Waverley. Your neighbor. Tris Waverley.”

“Dead?” Orion felt himself go white.

Smalley moved quickly toward him. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” said Orion. “What happened?”

“Found his body in a beat-up old truck next to the carcass of a dead skunk. Next to that drill rig of yours, Trip Barnes’s place. Strangled.”

*   *   *

After Smalley left, Orion sat in his cleared-off chair and looked down at the driveway where Tris Waverley had parked his SUV. He’d met the guy, challenged him, frightened him, even, and now Waverley was dead.

Why?

He looked around at the mess he’d made and cursed himself. What had come over him? He’d dealt with worse blows than the one Dorothy Roche had delivered. Damnation.

Had he killed her? He still didn’t know. Wouldn’t one of the students who worked for her have called the police by now? Could he expect a second call from Smalley? He couldn’t go through that icy questioning again.

He saw, in his imagination, that pink throat, his fingers squeezing the miserable life out of her. He shuddered. He flexed his fingers.

He couldn’t go home to Victoria and confess what an ass he’d been. Not yet.

He didn’t feel like cleaning up. Served him right to have to think about the mess for a while.

He had to get away, go where the noise level would block out Dorothy Roche and the fact, the awful fact, that he’d lost control. Not only of himself, but, it seemed, of his company.

He wasn’t much of a drinker, but right now he craved the companionship of people who did drink.

He turned out the lights, locked the door between him and the mess within, and trudged down the outside stairs. The last time he’d descended those stairs he’d gone to confront Dorothy Roche. Now Tris Waverley was dead. His last view of the world that long-dead skunk at his feet.

He headed for the Rip Tide Bar and its conviviality. He nursed a beer for an hour and left before the serious drinkers had one too many. He didn’t want to hear their maudlin talk of unpaid bills and cheating partners.

He returned to his office and brushed the broken glass off the folding cot. He’d face Victoria in the morning.

But that night he tossed and turned on the narrow cot, as much as his sleeping bag allowed. Who’d killed Waverley and why? The cops suspected him. That was for sure.

He recalled the red curtain that had dropped in front of his eyes—was it yesterday? He recalled holding his hands out in front of him like claws, the expression on Dorothy’s pasty face. He remembered all that.

And then he was driving along that stretch of beach with roses on either side. A gull swooped down to pick up a clam it dropped on the road and he’d swerved to avoid it.

Perhaps he had a few hours of freedom before Smalley’s footsteps marched up the outside stairs again. This time … He didn’t want to think about this time.

He went back to Waverley, a two-bit shopkeeper Dorothy hired because that’s what he was, a two-bit shopkeeper, a not very bright guy scratching out a living. Why him?

The sleeping bag had twisted around his legs as he tossed from side to side. He’d gone to bed in all his clothes except for his boots, which he’d set neatly on the floor at the foot of the cot. He got up, shook out the sleeping bag, smoothed it out, and slipped back inside it.

His mind flashed back to Dorothy. Who was she, anyway? Victoria had seen through her from the start. He hadn’t listened. And then, he thought, he couldn’t have killed her. He wasn’t a violent man. His way of dealing with a problem was cerebral, not brutal. Then he thought of the destruction around him.