The Bee Balm Murders (17 page)

Primo returned a few minutes later with tea and oatmeal cookies he’d found in her cupboard. Victoria hoped he hadn’t noticed the flour moths flitting around in there.

He set the tray down and Victoria poured.

“Tell me about your uncle’s television station.”

“Uncle Basilio, that is, Uncle Bruce, produces and broadcasts live music and drama.”

“What kind of drama?”

“Made-for-TV movies geared to preteens. Ten- to thirteen-year-olds.”

“That seems an awfully specialized audience.”

“That age group is a huge market, Mrs. Trumbull, with access to a lot of disposable income. Uncle Bruce’s channel carries more advertising than most TV channels.”

“What kind of movies does he show?”

“Vampire and horror movies.”

Victoria set down her mug. “Vampires? Horror movies?” She loved vampire movies.

“I hope I haven’t offended you, Mrs. Trumbull.”

“No, no. Go on.”

“Vampires are big business these days. Preteens love fantasy, magic, slimy creatures crawling out of sewers. That sort of thing.”

“Are you familiar with any of the actresses in your uncle’s movies?”

Primo shuddered. “I haven’t seen any of his television shows for years. I’m much too old for vampires.”

Much too old? Victoria sipped her tea. “Does the name Dorothy Roche mean anything to you, Primo?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Could you find out for me, without alerting your uncle, if she performs in any of his movies?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Trumbull.” Primo took a small leather notebook from an inside pocket of his uniform jacket, uncapped a black-and-gold fountain pen, and noted the name.

“If she does, can you get a photograph of her?”

Primo made another note and put his pen and notebook away. “I gather this should be entirely confidential?”

Victoria nodded. “How successful is his studio?”

“Very successful,” said Primo. “My uncle’s income from the studio didn’t match my father’s, but it yields him three or four million dollars annually.”

“Three or four
million
?” Victoria was aghast. “Your father earned more than that?”

“Three times what Uncle Bruce earns, twelve million, more or less. Uncle Bruce was jealous of my father.”

A bee flew in through the open door and made its way into the cookroom, where it bumbled against a windowpane.

“That’s a honeybee,” Victoria said. “Bring me a glass. I’ll trap it and you can let it out.”

Once the bee was released, she asked, “Is your uncle connected with the mob?”

“I don’t know,” said Primo. “My father dealt with the mob. Most construction companies in New York and Jersey do. Uncle Bruce isn’t in construction, though.”

“The mob has control over many entertainment facilities, I understand.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Primo said. “Uncle Basilio recently got involved in some kind of side business that seems to bring in as much as his television studio.”

“Mob connected?” asked Victoria.

Primo shrugged. “I have no way of knowing. He’s secretive about the business. But he makes sure we know how much money he’s making. Vulgar, my mother says.”

“How
is
your mother?” Victoria asked.

“My father’s death is a terrible shock, of course. But she’s a very strong woman. And she’s got Umberto and me.”

“Were you close to your father?”

“I respected him. He trained my brother and me to take over his business, but we weren’t close like father-sons.”

“Tell me more about your uncle.”

“Uncle Basilio always competed with Father. He wanted a bigger house, a more beautiful wife, more money. It goes on and on.” He stopped, his expression clouded. “Not anymore.” He sat up straight. “The fact that he has no children is a terrible blow to his ego.”

“And your aunt, what about her?”

Primo looked down at his cooling tea. “Aunt Maria Rosa. She’s all right.”

“You don’t sound enthusiastic.”

“It’s this way, Mrs. Trumbull.” He paused. “It’s … that is … Uncle Basilio, Uncle Bruce…”

Victoria nodded.

“He’s involved with another woman,” Primo blurted out.

“I should think you’d be upset with your uncle rather than your aunt.”

“My aunt won’t confront him.”

Victoria wasn’t sure what to say. She asked, “Do you know who the other woman is?”

“I saw him with her at a restaurant, but I have no idea who she is.” Primo finished his cookie and washed it down with a few more sips of tea. “Aunt Maria Rosa was the most popular girl in Uncle Bruce’s class. I’ve seen photographs of her when they got married. Amazing green eyes. She was quite beautiful.”

“But?”

“Well, she’s kind of let herself go.”

“She knows about the other woman?”

“Oh, yes. She knows all right.”

“Where are you staying, Primo?”

“At the Harbor View, Mrs. Trumbull.” Primo stood. “I’ve booked a suite there for three weeks.”

“July into August? That will cost a fortune.”

“Mrs. Trumbull, we are hunting down my father’s killer. No expense is too great.” He followed Victoria into the kitchen. “The car and I are at your disposal.”

Victoria smiled. She was beginning to accept the fact that the Bentley Flying Spur was her car, at least temporarily. “Let me get my hat and bag,” she said.

C
HAPTER
23

Primo parked the Bentley at the small West Tisbury police station and held the door for Victoria. “Would you like me to go in with you, Mrs. Trumbull?”

“No, thank you, Primo. I won’t be long.”

Casey, on the phone, looked frazzled. She waved a hand, and Victoria perched on the edge of her usual chair and waited for the chief to get off the line.

When she did at last, Casey swiveled her chair around to face her deputy. “What can I do for you, Victoria?”

“I came in to see what progress we’re making on the Angelo Vulpone investigation.”

Casey leaned back and sighed. “Victoria, it’s not ‘we.’ The state police have everything under control. That call was from them.”

“From Sergeant Smalley?”

“None other.”

“What did he have to say?” asked Victoria.

“No progress, witnesses, or evidence. Too much mud.”

“Angelo Vulpone’s sons have asked for my help,” said Victoria. “They believe the police aren’t doing enough.”

“The cops are working their tails off. And the Vulpone sons think you can solve this?” Casey rose from her chair. “Keep your nose out of this investigation, will you?” She set her hands flat on her desk and leaned toward Victoria.

Victoria’s face flushed. She stood. “Thank you.” She rose from her chair and marched straight to the door, shut it firmly behind her, descended the stairs with straight-backed dignity, and headed for the waiting Bentley.

Casey immediately burst through the door after her and called from the top of the steps. “Sorry, Victoria. I shouldn’t have said that.” She paused. “A Bentley?”

Primo was holding the door open for Victoria, whose back was plumb-line straight, her face a bright pink.

“Victoria?” said Casey, hurrying down the stairs as Primo shut the car door. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she said to the closed door and tinted window that showed only her own reflection.

Primo, from the driver’s seat, said, “Mrs. Trumbull?”

Victoria held up a regal hand. “To Orion’s office.”

As Primo reversed out of the station’s oyster shell parking area, Casey faded away behind them, standing at the foot of the station house steps.

Primo glanced in the rearview mirror at Victoria, whose mouth was set in a firm line.

“Would you like to talk about it, Mrs. Trumbull?”

There was a second’s pause. Then Victoria said, “The idea! The very idea! Treating me like a ten-year-old.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Primo, who obviously wasn’t sure what had happened in the police station.

“And furthermore, according to her, the police are doing nothing about your father’s death. Nothing whatsoever. Blustering to cover up their lack of progress.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They drove in silence down Old County Road past the school, past Whippoorwill Farm.

Victoria stroked the fine leather seat next to her. “We’ll show those amateurs how an investigation should proceed.”

Primo glanced again in the rearview mirror.

“First, to Orion’s office,” she said.

Primo stopped at the stop sign at the end of Old County Road. “I’m afraid I don’t know where his office is.”

“Ah,” said Victoria. “Of course.” She sat up straight and gave him directions. Her color had reduced itself to two bright pink blotches high on her cheekbones, looking much like war paint.

*   *   *

They found Orion, not at his office, but on Water Street near the Steamship Authority dock. He was studying a map he’d spread out on the hood of his car, his reading glasses in place, and he was pointing out something with a steel ruler to a bearded young man standing next to him. He looked up quizzically as the Bentley pulled up. He removed his glasses and, glasses in one hand, ruler in the other, studied the vehicle with its tinted windows that gave no clue as to who was inside.

Victoria lowered her window and came into view.

Orion’s pleasant expression turned into a broad grin. “Good afternoon, Victoria. Last time I saw you hitchhiking, you were in a dump truck.” He stood back to examine the car from a distance. “You’ve risen in the world.”

A breeze lifted a corner of the map that was on the hood of Orion’s car, and he weighted it down with the ruler.

The bearded young man said, “I’m heading to the Black Dog for coffee, Orion.” He leaned toward Victoria’s open window. “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Trumbull?”

“Not I, thank you,” said Victoria. “We’ll be here only a few minutes.”

“Green tea for me,” said Orion, reaching into his pocket for money. “No sugar.”

After he left, Victoria introduced her chauffeur.

Primo slipped out of the driver’s seat, went around the front of the car, and offered a hand to Orion.

“Primo Vulpone, Mr. Nanopoulos.”

Orion’s eyebrows rose. “Angelo’s son?”

“Yes, sir.” Primo removed his hat.

“My condolences. A difficult time for you.”

“Thank you. I understand you knew my father.”

“Not well. I’d discussed business matters with him. I’m sure we’d have become well acquainted in time.”

“He was most impressed with you, Mr. Nanopoulos, your business acumen, and your technical knowledge.”

“Thank you,” said Orion.

The breeze fluttered the map, shifting the ruler across the hood of the car. Orion picked up the map. “I understand you’ve engaged Mrs. Trumbull to investigate your father’s death.”

“My brother and I have, yes, sir. Your suggestion.”

Orion rolled up the map and tapped the end to straighten it. “Let me know if I can help.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re on our way to see Elizabeth,” said Victoria.

Orion grinned. “If I were riding around in a Bentley, I’d want to show off, too.”

Victoria raised the tinted window.

Orion turned to Primo. “A fine vehicle.”

“Thank you,” said Primo. “I’ve been admiring yours, too. It must be twenty years old and is in superb condition.”

“I’ll let you drive it sometime,” said Orion.

“I’d be delighted. And would be pleased to return the favor,” said Primo, settling his hat on his head and getting back into the driver’s seat.

From Orion’s work site, Primo drove Victoria to the Oak Bluffs Harbor, but Elizabeth was in the harbor launch checking mooring lines and couldn’t leave, so they drove home again, and Victoria dismissed her chauffeur.

Orion, at least, appreciated her car and driver.

*   *   *

The next afternoon, Victoria tried to finish her column, but couldn’t concentrate. Her mind was full of unconnected thoughts. Finally, she decided that news of the town could wait. The murder of Angelo Vulpone couldn’t. For that matter, neither could the murder of Tris Waverley. Nor the attempt on Orion’s life. Were the three—two deaths and a near death—connected in some way?

She pushed her typewriter aside, reached into the drawer of the telephone table for a lined yellow pad, and started to make a list.

The first item on her list was, “Why was Angelo killed? Why was he on the Vineyard? He seldom traveled, according to his sons.”

After that she added Tris Waverley. Strangled. Not like Angelo’s death. Was there a connection?

Then, why would anyone attempt to kill Orion, and with wasps? What a bizarre weapon. The would-be killer had known that Orion was sensitive to bee stings.

But, of course, Orion made sure everyone knew so they could treat him promptly in case of a sting.

The killer must also have known Orion’s habits, where he parked his car and his schedule.

But Orion’s schedule was erratic at best. Even she was never sure when he’d be home. The killer must have been watching her house and drive. It gave her a strange feeling to think that someone might have been spying on her.

Orion hadn’t told her much about Finney Solomon, the venture capitalist from New York. He was connected to Angelo Vulpone in some way. How did he figure in this?

She was sure the pieces were all there, but she couldn’t think how they fit together. Were there missing pieces that would make everything clear?

The only common element seemed to be Orion. Angelo Vulpone and Orion. Tris Waverley and Orion. Dorothy Roche and Orion. Bees or wasps and Orion.

She thought for a moment, her pen suspended in midair, then went back to work. The name Dorothy Roche was next on her list. There were two Dorothy Roches, a television actress and a false Dorothy Roche, who lived a phony life on North Water Street.

If the television actress worked for Uncle Bruce, Angelo’s brother, perhaps Uncle Bruce had set up the false Dorothy Roche in the North Water Street house out of sight of his wife, Aunt Maria Rosa. Uncle Bruce could charge the false Dorothy Roche’s expenses to his business as though the actress had incurred them, since he owned the studio. The setup seemed much too elaborate for a love nest though, and too visible. Why would he have chosen the Vineyard? Victoria made a note along the margin of the yellow pad to ask Primo and Umberto if they’d seen Uncle Bruce on the Island at any time.