The Bee Balm Murders (19 page)

“Really!”

“Mrs. Trumbull tells me you’re a famous actress. Would I have seen any of your plays?”

Dorothy ruffled her metallic hair. “I’m in television, darling. It’s Charlie, isn’t it?”

“Charles,” said Primo, keeping his eyes on the road, his attention on his passenger. “Television. How exciting that must be. I can imagine the lights, cameras, action. Cables snaking over the floor. Crew with earphones.” Primo glanced up again and was afraid he’d gone too far. “I’d love to see some of your work. What studio are you with?”

“Vulpone’s Vampire Venture,” said Dorothy. “I’m sure you never heard of it.”

Primo had expected to hear his uncle and his name, but still it took him by surprise. “Vulpone,” he murmured.

A deer darted out from the undergrowth by the side of the road. Primo braked. The deer bounded across in front of them. The car stopped abruptly, throwing Dorothy forward.

She screamed. “You almost killed me!”

“Sorry, ma’am. Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m not!”

He pulled over beyond Willow Tree Hollow, thought for a moment, and decided pouring her a nip wouldn’t hurt, and might even help. He leaned over the front seat. “The Bentley has a nicely appointed bar, er, Dorothy. Would you like something to calm your nerves?”

She fanned herself with her hand. “You wouldn’t happen to have Scotch, would you?”

“We have a nice single malt.”

“Oh, my dear!”

Primo, grateful that he’d stashed The Macallan out of reach, went around to the back of the car and opened the trunk, uncased the bottle from its velvet-lined mahogany box, and poured a shot into a silver cup. Setting the cup down on the sandy shoulder, he recapped the bottle, slipped it back into its case, locked the trunk, opened the passenger door, handed the cup to Dorothy, got back into the driver’s seat, and continued on toward Edgartown. He checked the rearview mirror. Dorothy was studying the silver cup. She touched her tongue to the Scotch, smiled, and took a tiny sip.

“You said Vulpone Studios,” said Primo, getting back to the subject of who this Dorothy person really was. “You must meet a lot of interesting people. Have you ever met Mr. Vulpone, himself?”

“Met! Darling,” a throaty laugh. “I certainly have met Mr. Vulpone.”

“He must be an important man,” said Primo. “Owning a television studio. I bet not many of the actresses have met him. You must be famous.”

“Well,” Dorothy took another small sip, “he does like the way I perform.” She giggled.

A shudder passed over Primo. “I guess actresses get paid pretty well, at least famous ones like you.”

“We have per-rog … perks.”

“Nice long vacations, I guess,” said Primo with a sigh. “I’ve always wanted to be an actor. Do you suppose Mr. Vulpone would be willing to look at my resume?”

“He’d adore you, Charlie.”

“Charles. Do you know how I can reach Mr. Vulpone?” Primo held his breath. “What’s his first name?”

“Bruce. Scotch.” She held up the silver cup. “He’d appreciate this. Scotch with Eye-talian. He’s more Eye-talian than Scotch.
Passionato,
you know.”

Primo winced. He’d found out the information Mrs. Trumbull needed. Now, he wanted to get this appalling woman out of his nice car before she … He didn’t care to finish the thought.

Then he would take a long hot shower in his room at the Harbor View and think about Uncle Bruce, Aunt Maria Rosa, and this awful Dorothy person.

C
HAPTER
25

The evening turned chilly. Victoria was lighting the parlor fire when Orion came home. She tossed the spent match into the blazing paper and got to her feet.

He sniffed. “Smells like a barroom in here. Who’ve you been entertaining?”

“Dorothy Roche.”

Orion stroked his mustache. “I think I need to sit.”

Victoria told him about Dorothy’s attempts to dismiss him from his own company.

Orion laughed.

“You need to take her seriously, Orion.”

“I am taking her seriously.”

“She claims Finney called a number of people who said you were out of your mind.”

“Two people,” said Orion. “Denny Rhodes, the selectman, and Dan’l Pease, head of Public Works.”

“Finney’s telling everyone that you’re ‘certifiable,’ according to Dorothy. They’re slandering you, Orion. Isn’t this going to influence your would-be investors?”

“Until I sign that contract of his, Finney has no business contacting investors on behalf of Universal Fiber Optics. And I have no intention of signing that contract.”

“Dorothy is determined that she and Finney will take over your company.”

Orion’s face set. “Dorothy Roche and that twerp will not take over my company.”

“What about the Ditch Witch drill?”

He stood with his back to the fire, facing Victoria. “I have my own ideas for dealing with Dorothy Roche.”

Victoria glanced up in time to see an odd expression on Orion’s usually pleasant face. She almost felt sorry for Dorothy. When she looked up again, Orion’s expression was pleasant as always.

“Your fires are perfect, Victoria,” he said. “You’ll have to show me sometime how you build them. Feels good on a chilly evening like this.”

Victoria still felt a chill from that fleeting expression, and she thought of the false Dorothy, and she wondered what was about to happen to her.

*   *   *

The next morning, Tim picked Finney up at his bed-and-breakfast. A Rolls? Finney didn’t know cars, but this had a woman taking off into space as a hood ornament.

Courtney led him to the library of the North Water Street house, where Dorothy sat. She looked ghastly.

“Are you ill, Dorothy?”

“I have a terrible headache. Come in.”

“I’m so sorry.”

The library light was subdued, and Dorothy’s back was to the window. He sat facing her where he could see out into the garden. Sunlight sparkled on the water spraying up from the fountain, casting rainbows onto the ceiling.

“I met with Victoria yesterday,” said Dorothy, holding a hand to her forehead. “We’re on a first-name basis now.”

Finney nodded.

“I asked her to convince Orion to step aside.”

“You’re a woman of great diplomacy. Nicely done.”

Dorothy untucked a lace hankie from her sleeve and held it to her mouth. A sweet fragrance wafted toward Finney, evoking a faint childhood memory. She moved the hankie aside. “You must get your investors to commit themselves, Finney. And soon. Perhaps if you put in two or three million of seed money, that will encourage others.”

Finney cleared his throat and returned to the present. “Orion hasn’t signed my contract. Until he does, no one will commit to anything.”

“What are you telling them?” Dorothy leaned forward and her handkerchief fluttered to the floor. “We can’t have them contacting Orion directly.”

“I realize that, Dorothy.”

“I want you to meet with Victoria Trumbull this morning. I explained to her our concerns about Orion, but she needs to hear it from you.”

Finney shifted. The bright sun pouring through the library window was blinding him and casting Dorothy’s face in shadow. No “darling.” No offer of breakfast this morning, something Finney had counted on.

“Why don’t you call to introduce us,” said Finney.

“I don’t want you to seem closely connected to me.”

“I assume your chauffeur will drive me?”

Dorothy sighed. “I just realized, Victoria’s chauffeur brought me home last night in her Bentley and I left my Mercedes in her drive.”

“A Bentley? Mrs. Trumbull has a Bentley?” Finney shifted again to see Dorothy’s face. She looked haggard. “I gather you drove the Mercedes.”

Dorothy didn’t answer.

“Will you call Mrs. Trumbull?” asked Finney.

“I suppose that makes sense.” Dorothy got up slowly. “Tim will drive you to West Tisbury in the Rolls. Bring the Mercedes back after you’ve spoken with Victoria.”

*   *   *

Victoria recognized the Rolls-Royce when it pulled up to her kitchen door. Tim, Dorothy’s chauffeur, opened the passenger door for a tall young man, then got back into the car, and departed.

So this was the Finney Solomon who, with Dorothy, was to take over Orion’s company. Victoria studied him as he looked around before he climbed the steps to her entry. As Dorothy had said, he was very young looking. Much too young to have contacts that would hand over fourteen million dollars on his say-so. But then, Victoria didn’t know a great deal about the psychology of investors.

He had short, light brown hair, and as he came closer, she could see his eyes were light, hazel or green, she couldn’t quite tell. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist and hips. He wore tan slacks and a navy blazer over a white knit shirt, and he carried an attaché case.

She went to the door to greet him.

“Mrs. Trumbull?” He held out his hand.

“You must be Finney Solomon. Come in. I’ve heard good things about you.”

“And I of you,” said Finney with a broad toothy grin. “Dorothy tells me you own a Bentley. I suppose you must have it garaged?” He was clean-cut, nice looking, but not handsome, and he wasn’t at all what Victoria had expected.

Victoria wasn’t sure she should mention Primo’s name. As a friend of Primo’s father, Finney might know him. So she said what was becoming more and more comfortable. “My chauffeur has taken the car on an errand. Please. Come in.”

“Wonderful cars,” said Finney, wiping his clean shoes on her worn doormat.

This Finney Solomon oozed confidence and honesty and trustworthiness. Victoria could see why investors might write out million-dollar checks to a project presented by him. She led him into the cookroom, where her work was spread out on the table, an old portable typewriter and a drift of notes penciled in her distinctive scrawl.

“I write a news column for the
Island Enquirer
,” Victoria explained, moving the typewriter and her notes aside. “I understand you were Angelo Vulpone’s friend.”

Finney glanced past Victoria and out the window. “He was my mentor. I’ve known him since I was a boy.”

“That couldn’t be too long, then.” Victoria smiled.

“More than a decade,” said Finney.

Odd how his saying
decade
seemed to imply a greater length of time than
ten years
. Victoria said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I simply wanted to meet you,” said Finney. “You have a reputation on the Island for being a mover and shaker.”

“I know where a few bodies are buried.”

“I understand you’re with the police force.”

“I’m a police deputy,” Victoria said, smoothing the tablecloth in front of her.

“I’m impressed. The police department is fortunate to have the benefit of your knowledge and expertise.”

As proud as she was of being associated with the West Tisbury Police, this flattery was a bit too blatant. Victoria got to her feet. “You look as though you could use a bite to eat. I believe we have some leftover muffins and cold coffee from breakfast.”

“Great!” said Finney. “Can I get them?”

Victoria smiled as this grand financier morphed into a hungry teenager. She was still under the enervating effects of the doxycycline, and told him where to find everything. “You’ll want to heat the coffee in the microwave.”

“I’ll do it. Can I bring you anything?”

“More coffee, please. There should be plenty.”

Plates clattered, a drawer opened and shut, the microwave dinged, and Finney returned with a basket of muffins, plates, and mugs of coffee. He waited for Victoria to serve herself, then dug in as though he hadn’t eaten for days. A very young man, Victoria decided. She smiled at Dorothy’s description of this Mozart of money.

“Okay if I take another?” Finney asked, his hand hovering over the basket.

“Help yourself. If they’re not eaten today, they get tossed out to the crows.” Victoria pushed her plate to one side. “Now, tell me why you’ve come to see me, besides the fact that I’m a mover and shaker.”

Finney finished his muffin before he answered. He brushed crumbs from his hands onto his plate. “That was wonderful, Mrs. Trumbull. Thank you.” He assumed a serious and mature expression. “As you probably know, Angelo planned to invest in Universal Fiber Optics.”

She nodded.

“With his death, the company doesn’t have the needed capital.”

“I understand you propose to raise that money?”

“Well, we’ve run into a problem.” He leaned his forearms on the table. “One of Orion’s partners—”

“Dorothy Roche,” Victoria interrupted.

“She and I feel that Orion is no longer the right person to head the company.” He looked at Victoria with sincerity. “Technically, you couldn’t find a better person. He’s got a nationwide reputation, actually a worldwide reputation, as an engineer.”

“But?”

“He’s over his head, Mrs. Trumbull.” Finney held Victoria’s gaze. She was determined not to look away first, and he finally dropped his eyes. “He needs to step aside. We’ll keep him on as a consultant, of course.”

“And you and Dorothy would be the managers.”

Finney sat back again, relaxed. “She’ll be chief executive officer, and I’ll be chief financial officer.”

“I see,” said Victoria. “What do you expect of me?”

“You have influence over Nanopoulos. We’re sure you can convince him to step aside. Let new blood take over.”

“Interesting,” said Victoria. “If you have a copy of your resume with you, I’d like to see it.”

“Certainly.” Finney opened his attaché case, extracted a blue plastic binder, and handed it to her.

Victoria turned to the first page, a summary of his work experience. Then the second and third. There were fifteen pages in all. After she’d studied them, she glanced up at Finney, who was looking both eager and expectant.

“I don’t know a great deal about finances,” she said. “Tell me what you did in this position,” she pointed to an entry on one page, “‘assistant to financial officer of Blake and Brown.’ What did the company do?”

Finney cleared his throat. “They manufactured paper and plastic products.”

“Such as?”