The Bee Balm Murders (24 page)

“Ah,” said Maria Rosa. “I think I’m beginning to understand something. Go on, you were saying?”

“The high bidder gets to ride on the Ditch Witch rig and also wins luncheon for fifty friends.”

“
Fifty
people! Who’s paying for this?” She drew a line under the drops to represent a pool of blood. “Never mind,” she said quickly. “I think I know. When’s this auction?”

“A week from tomorrow.”

“Thank you very much,” said Maria Rosa, and hung up. She tore off the top sheet of the scratch pad, crumpled it up, and hurled it into the kitchen trash along with the orange peels and coffee grounds.

*   *   *

After Sean left with Sandy tagging after him, Victoria cleared away the lemonade glasses. Orion stashed them in the dishwasher, then he and Victoria sat down again.

“Orion,” said Victoria, “you handled that well.”

“Poor kid,” said Orion.

“Sandy answered one question, but that leaves us with a few others. Who was the man who convinced him to play that trick on you?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Who would want to harm you? That makes no sense whatsoever.” Victoria watched a bright red cardinal forage for seeds on the ground under the feeder. “It can’t be someone protesting the fiber-optic cable. For the first time in history, it’s a project no one opposes.”

“I don’t know, Victoria. I just don’t know.”

*   *   *

Dorothy paced back and forth in her North Water Street house, waiting for Bruce to call. Cell phone reception here was unreliable, and she didn’t dare leave the house.

The phone rang.

“Hello?” Dorothy answered.

“What in goddamn hell do you think you’re doing?”

Surely he hadn’t heard this quickly about the auction item. “Bruce, darling…” she began.

“Don’t you goddamn ‘darling’ me, bitch.”

“What’s the matter, Bruce?”

“You know goddamned well what. I’m not paying for some luncheon for fifty people. Are you out of your mind?”

“I can explain,” said Dorothy, thinking fast.

“You can explain it to me, all right. Pick me up at the airport in a half-hour.”

Dorothy heard the unmistakable whine of an airplane engine before Bruce disconnected. She slammed down the phone and checked her watch. The plane was due to land at three-thirty. She’d have to leave for the airport in ten minutes. She’d get Courtney to fix something special for supper, lobster salad and that white Burgundy.

How could Orion have been so stupid? Everyone on the Island seemed to know about that auction item. How, she had no idea. What was she going to tell Bruce?

And when was Finney going to come up with the money? Bruce and Finney knew nothing about each other. Immediate action was critical now that Bruce was nosing around.

*   *   *

Finney felt a resurgence of confidence. People who would bid at the Outstretched Palm auction a week from tomorrow were probably on Island already, and he intended to shake hands with everyone he could.

First, he’d contact Victoria Trumbull, give her the opportunity to invest her millions. That would shame Dorothy into putting in a couple million of her own. After that, he’d personally shake hands with every one of the wealthy auction goers.

In his wallet he had the new credit card but not much cash. Even with considerably cheaper accommodations, his budget was stretched.

The room he was renting, within walking distance of Victoria Trumbull’s, was clean and comfortable. He looked out the window at a tailless cat making its way through the underbrush, stalking something.

The wealthy seldom quibbled over big expenditures, he told himself. It was the small stuff that seemed important. That explained why Mrs. Trumbull rented rooms. Small stuff. Three or four million would seem like nothing to her.

He dialed the phone in the downstairs hall.

Victoria answered.

“Finney Solomon, Mrs. Trumbull. I don’t know if you remember me, but I came by a few days ago and you were kind enough to look at my resume.”

“Certainly I remember you.”

“Well,” said Finney, suddenly feeling awkward, “I’m staying here in West Tisbury.”

Victoria said nothing.

“Would you mind if I called on you again? I’m just down the road.”

“You’re welcome to stop by,” said Victoria.

“Thanks, Mrs. Trumbull. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Make it later, around four,” said Victoria. “I’m in the midst of something right now.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Finney, and set the phone down.

C
HAPTER
32

Dorothy checked her watch. Only a few minutes before she had to leave for the airport to pick up Bruce. Why hadn’t he given her more warning? She applied her makeup carefully and checked her hair in the powder room mirror. Her roots showed. She rummaged around in her dresser and found a green velvet hat. That would have to do. She found matching green slacks and a lighthearted floral-print blouse. She mustn’t arrive late at the airport. Bruce had sounded in a horrible temper.

How was she going to explain this strange idea of Orion’s to him?

She’d think about that on the way to the airport.

*   *   *

Victoria had been going through financial information that Ginny had found on the Internet when Finney called. She was sitting at the cookroom table, where Ginny had set up her laptop and printer.

Tris Waverley seemed to be a legitimate businessman trying to make a modest living running an electronics store. He’d deposited a cashier’s check for a thousand dollars around the time the false Dorothy Roche had given him a retainer. However, the week before he was killed, he’d sent a series of cashier’s checks to his sister. The checks totaled more than fifty thousand dollars.

Victoria set the pages aside. “Have you found anything on Basilio Vulpone?”

“I’ve tapped into his computer, but now I have to wait until he does an online bank transaction. Then we’re in.”

“Are you sure this is legal?”

“You don’t want to know, Mrs. Trumbull.”

*   *   *

Dorothy arrived at the airport as the plane pulled up to the chain-link fence. A slim, tanned young woman in shorts, a sleeveless blouse, and boating shoes waited by the gate. She smiled at Dorothy, who suddenly felt hot and overdressed in her velvet hat and green slacks.

“Are you waiting for your husband?” the woman asked.

“Just a friend,” said Dorothy, and turned slightly so she wouldn’t have to converse.

The propellers slowed and stopped; the pilot climbed down and opened the baggage compartment in the wing.

Dorothy wet her finger and smoothed her eyebrows, pressed her lips together to redistribute the lip gloss she’d applied hastily, and stood with what she hoped was a disarming attitude.

Two passengers disembarked, a nice-looking man dressed in khaki pants, a blazer, and an open-necked shirt, and Bruce.

Dorothy always felt embarrassed when she saw him after a separation. He was soft and doughy, and his eyes looked small in his fleshy face. He wore a rumpled, double-breasted, pin-striped suit with a white shirt and yellow tie.

The ground crew opened the gate.

Bruce put on his sunglasses, hiding his eyes, and glanced toward his fellow passenger, who was grinning and heading toward the young woman in shorts.

Dorothy waved her arm to get Bruce’s attention. He lumbered toward her. The couple had left.

“Just what in hell…” he began.

“Darling, I have so much to tell you! All sorts of exciting things are happening. You’ll be so proud of me.” She took his arm.

He shrugged her off. “Gotta pick up my suitcase.”

“I’m so glad you’re planning to stay.” She followed him inside the building. He lifted his suitcase off the rack and pulled up the handle.

“I’m dying to tell you about the work I’ve done.” She turned coyly to him. “Would you like to drive?”

“Where’s that driver you hired?”

“I wanted it to be just the two of us, darling.”

Bruce grunted. “You drive. You’ve got one hell of a lot of explaining to do.”

He stowed his bag in the back of the car and went around to the passenger side. Dorothy was already in the driver’s seat, adjusting her hat, which kept slipping down on her forehead. She felt sweat trickling down behind her ears. She’d have to get to the hairdresser’s right away, before Bruce noticed the roots.

She pouted prettily. “I have an appointment at the hair salon I simply can’t break. Bad boy, you should have warned me that you were coming.” She backed smoothly out of the parking space and headed away from the airport.

“Cut the shit, Dorothy. What in hell were you thinking, lunch for fifty people? You crazy?”

On the way to the airport, Dorothy had decided on innocence, pure girlish innocence. She couldn’t see Bruce’s eyes behind the dark glasses. On the straight road she turned, just long enough for him to see her eyes brimming with tears. “I thought you’d be so proud of me. I wanted to surprise you.”

“Surprise me? Hell, everyone on the Island, everyone on the East Coast knows that some dame called Dorothy Roche is auctioning off a ride on a drill rig and lunch for fifty. Some surprise. I told you…”

Dorothy turned quickly to him again, the tears oozing down her cheeks now. “I know you wanted me to keep a low profile, but darling,” she looked back at the road. “This was such a wonderful opportunity for you. I know you’re interested in this company of Mr. Nanopoulos’s, and I thought you’d be pleased with me, finding out all I could about it?” She looked at him again.

“Watch it!” said Bruce, bracing his hands on the dashboard. There was a squeal of tires and the crunch of metal as Dorothy plowed into the back of a red Volvo station wagon driven sedately at exactly the speed limit by an elderly woman.

*   *   *

While they waited for activity on Bruce’s computer, Victoria was getting to know her assistant.

“Tell me about your sister,” Victoria said, moving the stack of printed pages to one side. “Your last name is Carroll and hers is Roche.”

“She’s actually my half-sister,” said Ginny. “Two years older. We have the same mother, different dads. Her dad was in the army. He died jumping out of an airplane.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Victoria. “Was he a paratrooper?”

“It was a friend’s airplane and he did it on a dare.”

“Good heavens. Did his parachute fail to open?”

“My mom told me he wasn’t wearing a parachute. That was a couple of months before Dorothy was born.”

Victoria didn’t know what to say.

“A year later, my mom married my dad, and here I am. He adopted Dorothy. He’s the only dad she’s ever known.”

“But she kept her biological father’s name?”

“Just as her stage name. She’s really Dorothy Carroll. She thinks her dad was a hero, you know? She honors him by being, like, a TV vampire?” Ginny shrugged. “Go figure.” She went back to her computer. “While we wait to see if Mr. Vulpone does an end-of-day bank deposit, I’ll track down that woman using my sister’s name.” Ginny tapped industriously then stopped. “Do you have any clues about her? I’m only coming up with stuff on my sister.”

Victoria thought a moment. “She claims to have had a limousine service and a cleaning service. She may have had a contract to clean the television studio.”

“That should do it.” Ginny went back to the keyboard.

Victoria busied herself in the kitchen, not wanting to stray too far from the magic of the Internet. A few minutes later, Ginny called out, “Hey, Mrs. Trumbull! Got it!”

Victoria draped the dish towel she’d been using over the towel rack and stepped down into the cookroom. “Triple V,” Ginny looked up, “the vampire TV studio my sister works for? They contracted with Ride-A-Broom Services to clean the studio. Nora Rochester heads the company.”

“Good job,” said Victoria. “Can you find out anything about Nora Rochester?”

“Sure. No problem.”

At the end of another half-hour, Victoria had a computer printout of Nora Rochester, a.k.a. the False Dorothy Roche, everything from date of birth fifty-seven years earlier, through three marriages that apparently yielded the money to finance the start-up of her cleaning and limousine services. Before four o’clock, when Finney was due to arrive, Ginny called out again to Victoria, who was sorting brown paper bags she’d saved from her Cronig’s shopping. “He’s made a deposit, Mrs. Trumbull. We’re in!”

“I don’t understand how that helps,” said Victoria, tucking the bags into a carrier bag.

Ginny tapped away. “You know the copies of cashier’s checks that woman whose brother was murdered gave you?”

“Right. Marylou Waverley.”

“Maybe Mr. Vulpone withdrew the same amounts near those same dates, know what I mean?”

“I think so.” Victoria stashed the bag of bags in the closet under the stairs and joined Ginny, who gave her another stack of printouts. A short time later, Ginny printed out still more.

“Wait until you see this, Mrs. Trumbull!” She handed several sheets to Victoria, who looked them over.

“This is wonderful,” said Victoria. “It confirms what I suspected. Bruce Vulpone is signing the expense account for Dorothy Roche that has her renting a large house on Martha’s Vineyard, cars, chauffeurs, gourmet food.” She looked up from the papers. “I gather your sister Dorothy isn’t renting that house on North Water Street?”

“You mean, set up by that big fat slob?” Ginny laughed. “No way, Mrs. Trumbull.”

“And he withdrew fifty thousand dollars from his account shortly before Tris Waverley deposited fifty thousand dollars. Good job, Ginny!”

*   *   *

A short distance from the airport, echoes of the crash of the Mercedes into the red Volvo faded away into the scrub oak alongside the West Tisbury–Edgartown Road along with the tinkle of broken glass dropping piece by piece onto the road.

The airbags had deployed. The car was full of a nasty white powder and stank of something worrisome. The plastic cover on the steering wheel had flown up into Dorothy’s face and smacked her in the nose, which was bleeding.

“I hope you kept the insurance up,” Basilio snapped.

“Yes, yes.” Dorothy was badly shaken and bleeding, yet the bastard hadn’t even asked if she was all right.