The Bee Balm Murders (18 page)

Again, the only connection was Orion.

While she wrote, a silver Mercedes pulled into her drive and parked under the Norway maple. Her first thought was that Primo had returned with yet another car. She’d commented on the Bentley’s conspicuousness, and perhaps he’d taken her seriously.

But when the driver’s door of the Mercedes opened, Dorothy Roche stepped out and locked the door behind her with some sort of remote-control device.

Victoria quickly lifted the tablecloth, put her list underneath, and smoothed the cloth down over it. She watched Dorothy approach and opened the kitchen door.

“Mrs. Trumbull. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

“Not at all. Come in.” Victoria stepped aside. This was a visit that deserved a certain formality. She led the way to the parlor through the long dining room. She could suddenly see her house through the eyes of a stranger. A battered upright and out-of-tune piano was at the west end between two windows. Late-afternoon sun sparkled on the small panes through a coating of salt spray blown in from the sea. Against one long wall was her great-grandmother’s horsehair couch, its worn and cracked faux-leather upholstery covered by faux-fur fabric that Elizabeth had found somewhere. Facing her great-grandmother’s two-centuries-old couch was the overstuffed sofa she and Jonathan had bought, their first furniture purchase after they married.

To Dorothy, whose taste ran to designer decor, this comfortably muddled home must seem jarring, with its furnishings ranging from the seriously old to the armchairs Elizabeth had picked up at the West Tisbury dump.

She glanced back at Dorothy as she led the way into the parlor.

“Charming,” Dorothy said, her smile firmly in place.

Once Dorothy was seated on the elaborately carved parlor sofa, Victoria realized it was late enough for drinks, and she got up again.

“I’ll be right back with sherry, Dorothy.”

Dorothy shifted in her seat. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I won’t be a minute. Make yourself comfortable.” As she said that, Victoria realized no one could possibly be comfortable on that stiff couch.

In the kitchen she started to get out the bottle of Amontillado, then put it away and instead brought out the cooking sherry from the cabinet by the stove. She placed the bottle and two glasses on a tray, and carried it into the parlor, poured two glasses, and handed one to Dorothy.

“Thank you so much,” said Dorothy. “How sweet of you.”

Victoria held her glass, not wanting to taste the sherry, and waited to hear what this visit was all about.

“Interesting decor,” Dorothy said, gazing around the room. “So … so … authentic!”

Victoria smiled. In the future, she’d have to use the word
authentic
with respect to this house. It fit, somehow.

Today, Dorothy wore a beige pantsuit and brown turtleneck shirt that had the effect of making her metallic red hair look less awful. She took a sip of the cooking sherry, cleared her throat, looked at the glass, and set it down. Victoria tried not to smile.

“Mrs. Trumbull, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here,” she began, clearing her throat again.

Victoria took a sip of her own sherry. It was, in truth, dreadful. She felt a tinge of guilt. She could easily have served the Amontillado. “I was about to issue you an invitation,” she said.

Dorothy shook her head. “You don’t owe me a return invitation, Mrs. Trumbull. I came to ask you a favor.”

“Oh?” Victoria set her glass down.

“I don’t know if Orion told you, but I’m now a partner in his company. Angelo Vulpone…”

Victoria stiffened at the mention of the dead man.

“… was about to invest a large sum of money in Orion’s and, of course,
my
company,” she looked up from the sherry glass she’d been staring at, “before he, ah, died.”

“Yes.”

“I’m concerned about Orion, Mrs. Trumbull.”

“In what way?”

“He’s under a great deal of stress, and, well, I don’t know how to say this. I worry about some of his decisions.”

Victoria edged forward. “What are you talking about?”

“I know he’s concerned about money and his schedule, and, of course, I don’t know him as well as you do, but I sense he may—how can I say this?—he may be having some sort of mental problem.”

“Orion? A mental breakdown?” Victoria reached for the sherry bottle. “Would you like a bit more?”

Dorothy shook her head.

Victoria was beginning to wish that she had served the Amontillado after all. No one would take a second or third sip of this stuff, let alone enough to loosen one’s tongue. She would like to know what this woman wanted of her, and Dorothy, sober, was too shrewd to slip up.

Dorothy looked down at her glass.

Victoria stood again, gathered up the two full glasses, and set them on the tray. “I have some much better sherry. This is awful, isn’t it? Would you prefer Scotch? Or bourbon? I think we do need to talk.”

Dorothy smiled. “Scotch, please. On the rocks.”

“Right,” said Victoria, and strode into the kitchen with the tray of un-drunk cooking sherry.

C
HAPTER
24

Dorothy Roche had shown up at Victoria’s around five in the afternoon. Two hours later, she was still there. Victoria had set the bottle of Dewar’s Scotch Whisky on the coffee table in front of Dorothy, who was now pouring herself a third glass. Victoria had hoped Dorothy might loosen up with a drink or two, but this was better than she had expected. Dorothy was quite garrulous.

“Don’t you see, Mrs. Trumbull, the man’s under tremendous stress. Something’s wrong with him.”

“Really,” said Victoria. “Please tell me more.”

Dorothy seemed to have some goal in mind, but Victoria hadn’t been able to figure out what that goal might be.

Dorothy’s conversation slipped into a first-name basis. “I met with Finney Solomon this morning, Victoria. I don’t believe you know him.”

“I’ve never met him.” Victoria had served herself a weak Scotch two hours earlier, but hadn’t touched it. It didn’t seem in character for this tightly controlled woman to allow herself to talk too much. Puzzled though Victoria was, she felt satisfaction in seeing Dorothy a bit tipsy.

“He’s raising fourteen million for our company. That’s quite a lot of money, as you can imagine, Victoria.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Finney is wealthy himself. He has to be very sure of the management of our company, you understand, in order to present it in the best light to our investors.”

“Of course.”

“Finney talked to a number of people who know Orion, and Finney is convinced that Orion is—well, I don’t quite know how to put it.” She sipped her Scotch and peered with barely focused eyes over the rim of her glass.

“Who did Finney talk to?” asked Victoria.

“Several people.” Dorothy waved vaguely. “One of them said Orion is crazy to attempt to do what he’s doing. Another refused to even talk about Orion.”

“Who did you say these people were?”

“Various people. We have other concerns as well.”

“By ‘we’ do you mean Finney and you?” Victoria asked.

Dorothy set her glass down on the coffee table with a clink. “I mean everyone who’s interested in the project.”

Victoria nodded. She’d pushed too hard. She tried a new approach. “Do you think the project is a mistake?”

“No, no. Not at all!” said Dorothy, looking confused. “Everyone who knows anything about fiber optics says it’s a gold mine. That’s what Angelo said. A gold mine!”

“Angelo?” Victoria tried not to show her surprise.

“Angelo Vulpone,” said Dorothy. “He planned to put a lot, and I mean a lot, of money into the project.”

“I didn’t realize you knew him.”

“Well,” said Dorothy, picking up her glass. “I did know him at one time, you might say.” She giggled. “Of course, I didn’t know him all that well. Angelo was a big man, not fat, exactly, but … yeah, you could call him fat. He had sex appeal even though he was…” She set her glass down. “Oh, hell. Actually he was a filthy fat bastard slob.”

Victoria sat back to absorb that bit of information.

Dorothy stirred her Scotch with a finger. The ice had melted but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Do you think someone else should take over the project?” Victoria asked.

“I knew you’d understand. Orion is a lovely man, but…”

“You and Finney would be the management team, then.”

“You do understand. Finney has an extensive background in finance, even though he’s awfully young.”

“How old is he?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s older than he looks.” Dorothy leaned forward unsteadily. “Actually, he doesn’t look much older than twenty-something. But he’s a financial genius, Victoria. The Mozart of money.” Dorothy giggled again.

“I’d love to meet him. You think that with your management experience and Finney’s financial ability, you could manage the whole fiber-optics project? Who would deal with the engineering aspects?”

Dorothy waved a hand in front of her face. “One really doesn’t need to know the nuts and bolts of a project to manage it, Victoria. But we’ve thought of giving Orion an honorarium for coming up with the idea.”

“Generous,” murmured Victoria.

Dorothy hiccuped. “Pardon me.”

Victoria handed her a napkin.

“Thank you. Basically, it’s simple, Victoria. Orion is unstable. Investors want their money to be safe.”

The sun was dropping quickly in the west. Golden light streamed through the windows. Victoria lowered the shade so the light wasn’t in Dorothy’s eyes.

“You said when you first came, that you had a favor to ask of me,” said Victoria.

“It’s sensitive.” Dorothy patted her lips with the napkin. “I feel a teensy bit uncomfortable asking you.”

“Please, you needn’t feel uncomfortable.”

Dorothy wadded up her napkin and set it on the edge of the coffee table. The napkin dropped to the floor. “Well, Orion lives here and you see him every day.”

“What is it that you want me to do? I’m sure you know you can trust me.”

“Absolutely, Victoria.” Dorothy looked down at the napkin on the floor and picked it up. “We need to convince Orion that it’s time for him to step down.” She crushed the napkin. “Would you do that? Talk to him about resigning?”

So that’s what the past two hours had been leading to, thought Victoria. Dorothy expected her to convince Orion to drop out of his own company. Orion, the madman. She looked at her watch and stood. “Lovely talking with you, Dorothy.”

“Likewise, Victoria.” Dorothy, also rising to her feet, knocked over her glass. Victoria quickly mopped up the spilled liquor with a napkin before it dripped down onto the books on the shelf underneath.

Dorothy hadn’t noticed. “I know we can count on you. He’s certifiable.”

“I want to hear more, Dorothy, but it will have to wait for another time.”

“I need to use your ladies’ room, Victoria.”

“Of course. Follow me,” said Victoria.

*   *   *

Victoria thought of Dorothy driving in her present condition, and while she was in the bathroom, Victoria called Primo.

“I’ve got the information you need, Mrs. Trumbull. Dorothy Roche acts in Uncle Bruce’s television dramas.”

“I suspected as much. Do you have a description of her?” Victoria carried the phone into the kitchen, out of Dorothy’s hearing.

“I told the studio I was a thirteen-year-old fan and asked for a photo. They e-mailed me a full-color, signed picture of her.”

“Clever of you.”

“She’s quite beautiful,” said Primo with a sigh. “Long straight black hair, dark blue almond-shaped eyes.”

“Does she play vampire roles?”

“I think she’s more likely the victim.”

“I told you about this woman who claims she’s Dorothy Roche, didn’t I?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She’s here, now. Would you drive her to her place on North Water Street?”

“I’d be delighted, Mrs. Trumbull.”

“I’m afraid I’m responsible for her condition.”

“No problem. Almost any place on North Water Street is close to the Harbor View. No trouble, at all.”

“She said she knew your father. Get her to talk about him, if you can. I have a feeling she’s your Uncle Bruce’s close personal friend.”

“I gather I should remain incognito?”

“That would be wise.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Victoria thanked him and hung the phone back in its wall cradle as Dorothy emerged, swaying just a bit.

“If I can only remember where I left my car…”

“My chauffeur will take you home. You can have someone pick up your car tomorrow.” Victoria added with satisfaction, “He’s driving the Bentley this evening.”

“Ooooh!” said Dorothy, plopping onto a kitchen chair. “What’s
he
like?”

“A perfect gentleman.”

“I don’t want a perfect gentleman,” pouted Dorothy, but Victoria had gone into the parlor to clear away the remains of the Dewar’s and didn’t answer her.

In a short time, Primo arrived. He escorted Dorothy to the Bentley, gently unstuck her arm from his, and settled her into the rear passenger seat.

From the window in the library, Victoria watched the taillights disappear into the shallow swale that marked the edge of her property.

*   *   *

“Lovely evening, Mrs. Roche,” Primo began.

Dorothy leaned forward a bit. “Darling, please call me Dorothy. Besides it’s not Mrs., it’s Ms.”

“Did you have a good afternoon with Mrs. Trumbull?”

“She’s so clever,” said Dorothy, settling back into the soft leather upholstery. “I simply hinted at something, and she understood exactly what I was talking about. What’s your name, darling?”

Primo said, “Charles.”

“Have you driven for Victoria a long time?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Primo. “Years.”

Dorothy perked up a bit. “What do you think of her?”

Primo thought of Victoria’s deep-set eyes and the spots of war paint on her cheeks, and knew he had to lie. “She’s a sweet, gentle, old lady. Extremely wealthy, but quite eccentric.”

“Wealthy, is she? You’d never guess.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this.” Primo looked in the rearview mirror. “But she owns a large villa in Provence, and a ranch outside Santa Barbara.”