The Bee Balm Murders (2 page)

She and Elizabeth saw little of him the first week. He was gone before they were up in the morning. On Monday, the only evidence of his having been there was an empty wasp-spray can next to the recycling bin, and a mug, rinsed and set upside down on a paper towel on the counter. At night he returned after Victoria and Elizabeth were in bed.

The Sunday morning of his second week in residence, Orion was in the kitchen brewing himself a cup of green tea when Victoria came downstairs.

A northeaster had set in during the night and rain slashed against the windows facing the fishpond.

“We’ll have at least three days of wet weather,” Victoria predicted, looking out the window at the downpour. “A good time for you to take a break.”

“Not a very long break, I’m afraid.” Orion spooned the tea bag out of his mug and dropped it into the compost bucket. “I have to work today.”

She turned from the window. “Sunday? In this rain?”

“I have a schedule to meet.”

McCavity, Victoria’s marmalade cat, had entwined himself around Orion’s legs and was purring like a locomotive working up a head of steam. Orion leaned down and stroked him.

“I hope you’re not allergic to cats,” said Victoria.

“Not cats,” said Orion. “Just bees.”

“Will Sean’s bees be a problem for you?”

Orion gave her his pleasant look. “I try not to smell or appear like a flower, Mrs. Trumbull, and I wear shoes when I walk through clover.”

“How serious a reaction do you have?”

“Serious. My throat and tongue swell and my heart rate goes way up. I carry an EpiPen with me in the field.”

“An EpiPen?”

“A sophisticated hypodermic needle that contains epinephrine, an antidote to insect stings. I can inject myself if I get stung.”

“Perhaps I should ask Sean to remove the hives.”

“Don’t do that, Mrs. Trumbull. The bees were here before I was. I’ll avoid them and they’ll avoid me.”

Victoria opened a can of tuna. McCavity untangled himself from Orion’s legs and stretched.

“Morning, Gram. Morning, Orion.” Victoria’s granddaughter entered the kitchen looking dewy and rested. Her sun-bleached hair curled around her ears. She was as tall as Victoria, and looked exactly like her grandfather, Victoria’s dead husband.

“First things first.” Elizabeth poured herself coffee. Her mug had once read
POOLE
’
S FISH MARKET
but washings had faded it to a simple
FISH
.

Victoria took eggs out of the refrigerator. “Would you like to join us for breakfast, Orion?”

“Love to. Thanks.”

Elizabeth baked a batch of muffins, Victoria whipped up an omelet, Orion set the table, and the three sat down.

“Gram says you’re involved with fiber optics,” said Elizabeth as they were eating. “They carry phone calls really, really fast, right?”

“Much faster than copper wire,” said Orion. “A single fiber, smaller in diameter than a human hair, can carry more data faster than a fat electrical cable.” He paused briefly to dig into his omelet. After he’d devoured the first bite, he made a thumbs-up sign and then continued. “Since it’s glass, it’s immune to corrosion and electrical interference.” He stopped again and turned to Victoria. “Enough about my business.” He gestured at the omelet on his plate. “This is wonderful.”

“Will you install the cable underground?” asked Elizabeth.

“Underground throughout the Island. We’ve already started in Tisbury.”

“How many miles of trenches will you have to dig?” asked Elizabeth.

“Too many.” Orion set down his fork. “We won’t dig trenches, though. One of my investors is buying a machine that can drill horizontally and pull the cable back through the hole without disturbing the surface.”

“Is your investor an Island man?” asked Victoria.

“Woman, actually,” Orion replied. “Her name is Dorothy Roche and she lives in Edgartown. I’ve had several discussions with her and am quite impressed.”

Victoria said, “Hummmph,” and frowned.

Orion looked mystified.

Elizabeth laughed. “Gram doesn’t much care for Dorothy Roche. She thinks she’s an egotistical, self-satisfied, nouveau-riche-bitch social climber who’ll stamp on the fingers of anyone on the ladder below her. Right, Gram?”

Victoria had just taken a sip of coffee. She coughed and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “I wouldn’t put it that strongly.” She gave her granddaughter a look. “I really don’t know her well.”

“She moved to the Vineyard only a couple of months ago,” put in Elizabeth. “Go on, Orion. You were telling us about the drilling machine.”

“It’s amazing. A radio beacon and receiver track the drill head. It can be steered around rocks, go around corners, go any direction.” He stopped long enough to eat. He put his fork down and dabbed at his mustache with his napkin. “If a trench is excavated for some purpose, for a sewer or electric line for instance, we’ll use that trench. Otherwise, we’ll use the drill.” He helped himself to another muffin, broke it open, and buttered it. “Tisbury’s Department of Public Works is opening up a trench in the ball field for a drainage line. We’ll be laying optical cable in the trench alongside it today.”

“I’d love to see that,” said Elizabeth.

“If you don’t mind mud, come down and watch.” He abruptly sat sideways in his chair, reached into his pocket, brought out a cell phone, opened it, and looked at the display. “Excuse me, Mrs. Trumbull. I’ve got to take this call.” He left the cookroom and returned a few minutes later, frowning.

“Trouble?” Victoria asked.

“I’m afraid so.” He tossed down the napkin he’d been holding and took the back stairs two at a time to his room. Seconds later, he returned, carrying yellow oilskins. His face was pale and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “A worker on the early shift climbed down into the trench for some reason and found a body.”

Victoria laid down her fork. “How awful.” She set her napkin on the table and got to her feet. “Who is it?”

“They didn’t say.”

Elizabeth, too, stood. “What do you have to do?”

Orion shook his head as though to clear it. “I’ve got to get to the site and see for myself what’s going on.”

“How deep is the trench?”

“Six feet. The ditching machine was filling in the trench right behind the worker who found the body. Ten minutes later, the trench would have been filled in. The body would never have been found.”

Orion slipped his oilskin trousers over his jeans and shrugged into the hooded jacket. “Sorry to leave like this.”

“Don’t even think about it,” said Elizabeth.

“If it turns out not to have been an accident and you need help, Orion,” Victoria said, “let me know.”

He glanced at her.

“I’m a deputy police officer,” she added.

“Ah,” said Orion, clearly not knowing exactly what to make of that. “I’ll be sure to keep you informed.”

He pulled the hood up on his jacket and headed out, his oilskin trouser legs swishing as he walked.

He clumped down the stone steps, patted the side of his wagon, got in, and sped out of Victoria’s drive.

*   *   *

Orion drove into Vineyard Haven, quiet this rainy Sunday morning, turned right at Five Corners, right again down an obscure side road across from the Tisbury Printer, and parked. Rain fell steadily.

The muddy playing field was full of flashing red, white, and blue lights. It seemed as though every emergency vehicle on the Island had responded. State police. Tisbury police and ambulance. Marine conservation police. A Harley-Davidson with flashing blue lights. A hearse. A yellow pickup with a magnetic sign on the side that read
TWO BRAVES CONSTRUCTION
with the profile of an Indian chief in feather headdress.

Orion located Dan’l Pease, head of the town’s Public Works Department, near the parking area. He was covered with mud and was leaning on a shovel. Rain washed down the mud on his oilskins in brown streams. Through the steady rain, Orion made out a blur of yellow-clad people milling around the far end of the trench. He turned back to Dan’l. “What’s the story?”

“Hell. That damned son of mine,” replied Dan’l, stabbing his shovel into the muck. “Danny, clumsy as usual, dropped a wrench into the excavation. Jumped down to get it, yelled, ‘There’s a body down here!’ We fished him back out and called nine-one-one.” He gestured at the swarm of vehicles.

“Who’s in charge of the investigation?” asked Orion.

“State police. They’re trying to get everyone out of the way so they can do their thing.”

Orion tugged his hood farther down to shield his face. “How did Danny expect to get out of the trench?”

“You’re asking me?” Dan’l shrugged. “My kid doesn’t have the sense he was born with.”

“Any idea who it is? Male or female?” asked Orion.

“It’s a man, but we can’t tell much about him. Facedown in about a foot of water. Clearly dead. We left him for the cops to worry about.”

“Let’s take a look,” said Orion.

The trench had been excavated about a third of the way across the playing field. They slogged over to the far end where the body was.

Sergeant Smalley of the state police stood by the trench. “Morning, Dan’l.”

“Morning, John. You know Orion Nanopoulos? He’s laying the fiber-optics cable.”

“How’re you doing?” said Smalley. “I don’t know what evidence we’ll find in this mess, but keep clear anyway.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Dan’l. He and Orion peered down into the trench from where they stood. At the foot of a ladder that had been lowered into the trench, a bulky figure in motorcycle leathers knelt in foot-deep water. The figure concealed whatever it was leaning over.

“Who’s that?” asked Orion.

“Doc Jeffers. Medical examiner,” said Smalley.

“I don’t envy Doc his job today,” said Dan’l. Mud had oozed up over the toes of his boots. He lifted first one foot, then the other with a sucking sound.

“Groundwater’s seeping into the trench fast,” said Orion. “The doc had better get out of there soon.”

At that, Doc Jeffers rose to his feet. When he stood, his goggled eyes were level with the ground. “I’m done. Lift him out.” He passed up his black bag to Dan’l then climbed the ladder out of the trench. He was well over six feet tall. His leather outfit was wet and filthy. He bent down and scraped off as much mud as he could.

“Were you able to identify him?” asked Smalley.

“No idea. Never saw him before. He doesn’t have a wallet on him. No ID that I could find.” Doc Jeffers lifted his goggles to his forehead. His bright blue eyes and white eyebrows were a pale mask in his muddy face. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his face, then looked at the mud on his handkerchief. “What a mess.”

“Cause of death?” asked Smalley.

“Gunshot to the back of the head.” Doc Jeffers bared his teeth, white against his mud mask. “Any other questions will have to wait for the autopsy.” At the sound of squelching footsteps, he looked up. Two oilskin-clad figures were carrying a stretcher toward them.

“Can’t wheel it through this muck,” said Doc Jeffers. “It’s all yours, Smalley. I’ve got to get cleaned up.”

“They do the autopsy here on the Island?” asked Orion.

“Hell, no. Toby takes the remains off Island to Boston in his hearse.” He grinned again. “The Steamship Authority makes him buy a passenger ticket for the deceased. Go figure.” He turned to the two stretcher bearers, one tall, one short, both Tisbury cops. “I’m done.” Doc Jeffers trudged off to his Harley.

“Tisbury’s sent a couple of men to give us a hand,” Smalley said to Dan’l. He turned to the two bearers. “Thanks for helping out. Appreciate it.”

“No problem, Sergeant,” said the shorter one.

Between them, they hoisted the body out of the trench and laid it on the stretcher.

“Heavy son of a bitch,” said the shorter cop.

“We need another couple of guys to help carry,” said the taller. “Can’t wheel it in this.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” said Orion.

“Me, too,” said Dan’l.

“We’ll be right back,” said the taller cop. “Getting a tarp to cover him.”

The limp body lay on its back, faceup to the rain, which was washing away much of the mud. Orion took a quick look. A man in his sixties. Heavy jowls. Heavy bags under sightless gray eyes. Fleshy lips, parted to expose expensive dental work.

Angelo Vulpone. Orion stood and straightened his back. Head of Vulpone Construction, Brooklyn. One of his potential investors. A potentially
big
investor. What in hell had he been doing here?

Dan’l watched him. “You know the guy?” He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead.

Orion stared down at the corpse. Rain trickled down his back and his forehead. Rivulets streamed into the creases of his cheeks. He smoothed his dripping mustache and absently wiped his hand on his wet jacket.

Who’d killed Angelo? Why? And why here?

C
HAPTER
3

The cops returned with a large blue tarp, and tucked it around the corpse.

Orion, Dan’l, and the two Tisbury cops labored across the muddy field with the considerable weight of Angelo Vulpone. Twice they’d had to set the stretcher down to ease their muscles and switch sides.

“You knew the guy, right?” said Dan’l on the first rest stop. Rain rattled on the blue tarp.

“Can’t hear you,” said Orion, pushing his hood away from his ears.

“You knew him,” Dan’l said.

Orion shrugged.

“He came around last night looking for you.”

“Is that right?” said Orion.

“Got out of a black Lincoln over there.” Dan’l jerked his head in the direction of the parking area.

“Alone?” asked Orion.

“Let’s go,” called out the lead cop. “Only a short distance now.”

Orion switched to the left rear, Dan’l to the right.

“Okay, lift!” called out the cop.

Orion bent his knees and straightened his back. He had to be careful. How much had Vulpone weighed, anyway, three hundred?

Dan’l echoed his thoughts. Grunting, he lifted. “Weighs a goddamned ton.”

They struggled over the next hundred feet of muck and set the stretcher down again.

“Did he leave his name when you saw him last night?” Orion asked.