The Bee Balm Murders (25 page)

He unbuckled his seat belt, brushed himself off, slithered out of his seat, and limped between the two cars, which had rebounded two feet apart. He kicked aside broken glass from the Volvo’s red taillight and the Mercedes’s clear headlight.

“What in hell did you think you were doing, lady?” he yelled at the elderly driver. “You could’ve got us killed.”

The woman opened her car door. No airbag, apparently. She unfolded like a carpenter’s rule until she stood, a good four inches taller than Basilio. She loomed over him. She hadn’t uttered a word until now.

“What are you talking about, you foolish little man? Are you intoxicated? The top speed limit on this Island is forty-five miles per hour. Your car was going at least sixty.” She folded her long arms over her narrow chest. She was wearing a gray blazer and a sharply pleated gray-and-pink plaid skirt that hung below her knees. “I’m calling the police to insist they issue you a speeding ticket.” She started back to the open door of her car, reached in, and brought out a large leather purse.

Dorothy continued to sit, waiting for Bruce to realize how severely injured she was. She’d used three tissues to sop up the blood from her damaged nose. Perhaps broken. If so, she would sue someone. Blood had dripped on her beige silk blouse. What were the symptoms of shock?

“Check the damage,” Basilio said to the tall woman.

“Give me your name and phone number,” she replied, extracting a notebook and pen and cell phone from the purse. “I’m on the staff of the
Island Enquirer
. We’re waging a campaign against speeders.” She looked down at him, notebook and phone in one hand, pen poised in the other. “Your name?”

“My name…?” He was beginning to sweat. “Oh, hell.” Basilio gave her his name.

“Address?”

“Damn!” He gave her that.

“May I ask what the hurry is? Or was,” she added.

“My friend … associate … was distracted.”

“Obviously. I suppose you weren’t wearing seat belts.” The woman checked the Mercedes license plate, jotted it down, and flipped open her cell phone.

“Wait,” said Basilio. “Why don’t I give you a check? That should cover everything.”

“You’re bribing me? What on earth are you thinking?” She punched in a number.

Basilio snatched the phone out of her hand and snapped it shut. “Let’s talk. If there’s no serious damage, no problem. No need for the police. You don’t want a check, I won’t give you a check.”

“My phone.” She held out her hand.

“Let’s be reasonable. I’ll pay for the broken taillight. My friend learned her lesson. No more speeding.”

She continued to hold out her hand.

“No police. Think of the paperwork, wasted time. This Island is a friendly place.” After a long stretch of silence, he handed the cell phone back to her.

She took a deep breath. “We’ll see what other damage has been done.” Before she moved she peered through the fogged-up windshield of the Mercedes. “Your friend seems to be injured.”

Dorothy closed her eyes.

“She’ll live,” said Basilio, checking the front fender. “Seems to be okay. Only a small dent and the broken headlight.” He looked at the Volvo’s rear. “Taillight and some dents. Can’t tell what’s new.”

The woman’s mouth was a tight line. “Do you have any comment for the paper?”

“No comment,” he said. “What are you writing?”

“I write the garden column.” She folded herself back into the driver’s seat and drove off sedately.

Basilio got back into the passenger seat. “Bitch,” he said. “I never gave her that check. Let’s go.”

Dorothy moaned.

He turned to her. “What in hell’s your problem?”

*   *   *

Victoria was in the kitchen when Finney arrived.

“Where’s your driver?” she asked.

“I’m staying at a place down the road. I walked.”

Victoria introduced him to her assistant.

Ginny got up from her computer. Victoria, who’d accepted her assistant as a personable-appearing young woman, hadn’t paid much attention to her looks. Now, she had a moment of seeing this young woman through the eyes of a young man, and was struck by how lovely she was.

Ginny was almost as tall as Victoria and had a trim, athletic figure. Her lustrous blue-black hair was pulled back from her face and held with a silver flower pin. Her eyes, dark brown and slightly almond shaped, were framed by thick, long lashes. No wonder Finney was staring at her, his mouth open, his face flushed.

Ginny held out her hand and Finney took it in his.

“You look familiar,” said Ginny. “Have I seen you before someplace?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m sure I have. Where are you from?”

“The New York area,” said Finney.

“Jersey City. That’s where I’ve seen you.”

Finney cleared his throat.

Victoria sensed an awkwardness she couldn’t quite place. “Would either of you care for a glass of wine?”

Finney stared at the floor.

Victoria said, “Ginny?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Trumbull. Back to work.” She indicated the computer with its screen saver of colorful swimming fishes, and sat, her back to Finney.

Victoria turned to Finney, who was staring at Ginny’s back. “Wine, Finney?”

“Oh, sorry. Thanks.”

“Let’s go into the parlor.” She led the way and sat in her wing chair. Finney perched on the stiff couch. Victoria poured the wine.

“You wanted to talk to me.”

“Right, Mrs. Trumbull.” The flush faded from his face and his look of assurance returned. “I thought you might be able to help me.”

Victoria frowned. “Why me?”

Finney smiled. “I know you’re well connected.”

“What are you talking about?” said Victoria.

Finney sat forward on the sofa and twisted his wineglass around and around on the coffee table. “You know the movers and shakers on the Island.”

Victoria’s connections were to the Island’s poets and writers, sheep farmers, fishermen, and artists. She didn’t think those were the movers and shakers Finney meant.

“People who get things done, Mrs. Trumbull. People who contribute financially to Island causes. You know.”

“I don’t believe I do.” Victoria felt a growing distaste for this young man. The other day, when she’d pointed out that the positions he’d overstated were no more than clerical jobs, she’d assumed she’d put him in his place. Apparently not.

“It’s a great opportunity for you, Mrs. Trumbull. And the Island, of course.”

“What opportunity are you talking about?”

“We’ve embarked on an optical-fiber-cable project that will revolutionize the Island and its way of communicating. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”

Victoria, who’d listened to hours of Orion’s lectures on fiber optics, said nothing. She sipped her wine.

“It’s not a technology many people understand, Mrs. Trumbull. But for those who invest in our company, the yield will be astronomical.”

At that, Victoria curled her toes and her sore toe bumped the edge of the hole Elizabeth had cut in her shoe. She gasped in pain.

Finney didn’t seem to notice, because he went on. “You may have heard of Dorothy Roche, a wealthy woman who’s been on the Island only a few months.”

Victoria wondered if taking her shoe off would relieve the pain or make it worse. She sat up straight.

“I’m sure you’ll be seeing her at the Outstretched Palm auction.” He looked with great sincerity at Victoria. “She’s offered a ride on our drill rig and will host a luncheon for fifty friends of the top bidder.”

“I don’t go to the auction,” Victoria said primly.

“Oh,” said Finney, taking a gulp of wine.

Neither spoke for an uncomfortably long time. Finally Finney said, “Dorothy and I hope you’ll invest in UFO.”

Victoria looked puzzled. “Invest?”

“The return on your investment would enable your grandchildren to live quite comfortably.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Three million would give you an excellent return.”

“Three million? Dollars?” Her toe throbbed.

“It’s a great opportunity.” Finney sat back, having said what he’d intended. “I’ll be glad to handle the paperwork.”

Victoria was speechless. She stared at this very young man, her eyes wide open, her nose lifted.

“We’ll discuss this with your financial advisor if you’d prefer,” Finney said. “Perhaps you’d feel more comfortable dealing with him.” Victoria was still staring at him. “Or her, of course,” he added.

Victoria rose from her seat. “Young man,” she said in her deep, firm voice. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

It was Finney’s turn to look puzzled. “But Mrs. Trumbull, we’ve hardly spoken.”

“Let me show you out,” said Victoria, wincing with pain as she stood up.

*   *   *

After Finney left, Victoria stormed into the cookroom, pulled out her chair, and sat down with a thump. Ginny lifted her hands from the keyboard.

“The idea. The very idea,” said Victoria. “You seemed to know him.”

“He’s an arrogant creep, Mrs. Trumbull. Besides that, he’s stupid. I suppose he can’t help being stupid.”

“How do you know him?”

“He went to the community college my sister attended.”

“In Jersey City?”

She nodded. “He studied business and didn’t do all that well. He kept hitting on the women students and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Real asshole. Excuse me, Mrs. Trumbull.”

“Understandable,” said Victoria, and began to unlace her shoe.

C
HAPTER
33

Back in his room, Finney crossed Mrs. Trumbull off his list of investors. She had almost literally thrown him out of her house. Eccentric was a good description. Here she was, with a chauffeured Bentley, yet she dressed like a bag lady and lived in that shabby old house.

Finney looked at his watch and decided he’d have to talk to Dorothy. He hiked the quarter-mile up New Lane from his bed-and-breakfast to Edgartown Road and the bus route. Doane’s newly hayed pasture was on his left; Mrs. Trumbull’s overgrown meadow was on his right. A kid sailed past him on a bicycle. The bus was due in about ten minutes. While he waited, he went through his wallet to see how much money he had. He pulled out his bus pass. That was a wise investment. He smiled when he thought of a bus pass as an investment compared to the fourteen million he had in mind. When the bus showed up he climbed aboard.

“Nice day,” said the driver, a pleasant woman.

“Right,” said Finney, who didn’t feel as though it was a nice day at all. He sat in the back of the bus. At the last stop on Church Street, he left the bus and walked over to North Water Street. Dorothy’s Mercedes was parked in the space next to her house, and she was sitting in it. The windows looked as though they were steamed up.

Was he intruding on something? Was Dorothy reliving some past adventure in the back seat of a car?

Then he realized the steam was actually white powder. He could barely make out a second figure in the passenger seat. He rapped on the driver’s side window. Dorothy lowered it.

Finney took one look at her. “What happened?” The inside of the car was chaos. White powder, blood, and a smell like that of a rutting goat, although he’d never smelled a rutting goat. “My God! I’m not intruding, am I?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” said the male passenger. “She hit a Volvo, the air bag went off, and she wasn’t wearing a seat belt.”

Dorothy’s face was swollen. Both eyes were black, her nose was mashed in, and dried blood streaked her face and stained her silk shirt.

“You’ve got to see a doctor. You look terrible.”

“Mind your own business, sonny.” The passenger got out of the car. He was a stocky guy, much shorter than Finney. He hitched up his pants. “Who in hell are you?”

Finney stood up straight and assumed his financier expression, nose raised, mouth turned down. “I’m Finney Solomon, Ms. Roche’s partner.” He held out a hand for the guy to shake, but the guy ignored it. “And you, sir?”

“Partner!” The man bent down to look at Dorothy, who was slumped over the wheel. “Doing just what?”

“Our company is installing an optical-fiber cable throughout the Island.”

“Is that right?” said the man.

“You haven’t told me your name, sir.”

“None of your goddamned business.” To Dorothy, “Get out.”

“I’m not sure I—” Dorothy whimpered.

“Get out!”

“She’s injured. Can’t you see?” said Finney. “I’ll take her to the emergency room.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” To Dorothy, “You getting out on your own, or am I yanking you out?”

“Sir!” said Finney.

“Shut up,” said the man.

Dorothy slowly opened the door, slowly swung her legs around, slowly eased herself out of the car, and slowly walked past Finney without looking at him and into her house on North Water Street.

The man came around the front of the car, hands balled up into fists, and glared up at Finney. “Partner, hey? In a fiber-optics company, hey? What the hell are you?”

“I’m chief financial officer.”

“Chief financial officer.” The man laughed.

Finney lifted his chin and gazed down at the man. “May I ask what your interest is in this?” With that, the man laughed again, a loud nasty laugh.

“Who are you?” asked Finney.

“Let’s hear who you are, first. Chief financial officer. What do you do as chief financial officer?”

“I raise money through venture capitalists, sir.”

“Yeah? Where’d you learn about that, in play school?”

Finney flushed. “I was mentored by the best. None other than Angelo Vulpone.”

“Is that right?” the man said again. “The great Angelo Vulpone?”

“Yes, sir,” said Finney. “Will you tell me who you are, now?”

“Sure,” said the man, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. “My name’s Basilio Vulpone. Tell you anything?”

Finney swallowed.

“Angelo Vulpone’s kid brother, that’s me. Better crawl out from under that rock and get outta here before I remember some more of who I am.”

Finney couldn’t think of what to say. “Ms. Roche needs to see a doctor.”

“Hell she does,” said Basilio Vulpone. “I go in there, I’m beating the shit outta her. Understand?” With that, he turned away from Finney, limped up the front steps, wrenched the door open, and slammed it shut behind him.