The Bee Balm Murders (29 page)

Victoria casually strolled over to the couple. “Lovely afternoon for the auction, isn’t it.” She interrupted the man’s angry flow of words.

The woman turned away from the man, and smiled. “Delightful. Have you attended this auction before?”

“This is my first time,” said Victoria.

The man scowled. He stuffed his handkerchief into his suit coat pocket and smoothed his tie.

“My first time, too,” said the woman. “In fact, this is my first visit to Martha’s Vineyard. Have you spent much time on the Island?”

“I live here,” said Victoria. “I was born here.”

“How fortunate you are.” The woman extended a slim hand. “My name is Maria Rosa Vulpone.”

The man coughed, covering his mouth with a fist, then stuck both hands in his suit coat pockets.

Victoria took the woman’s delicate hand in hers. “I’m Victoria Trumbull.”

“Mrs. Trumbull! Just this morning I was reading your column in the newspaper. What a pleasure to meet you.” She turned to the man. “This is my husband, Basilio.”

The man removed a hand from one pocket and offered it to Victoria, a fat, soft, white hand.

“Your name, Vulpone, is familiar to me,” Victoria said to Basilio. “Was it your brother, Angelo…?”

Basilio crossed himself with his free hand and glanced heavenward. “My older brother, bless him.”

“My condolences. This must be a difficult time for you. It’s been, what, five weeks?”

Maria Rosa said, “Basilio needed distraction from the tragedy of his loss.”

Basilio pursed his lips.

“Quite understandable,” said Victoria. “What brings you to the Island?” She addressed both of the Vulpones. “Besides the auction, that is.”

Basilio fished a pair of designer sunglasses from his breast pocket and covered his eyes with them.

Maria Rosa answered with an elegant touch of her Italian accent. “My husband is here on business, aren’t you, Basilio?”

Basilio grunted. Victoria couldn’t see his eyes. “Do I understand you’re in the television business, Mr. Vulpone?”

Again, Maria Rosa answered. “My husband is the director of Triple V Cable.”

“Do you have plans for a television show on Martha’s Vineyard?”

Basilio said, “Could be.” He took his wife’s arm. “‘Scuse us, Mrs. Trumbull.”

With that, he led his smiling wife away.

Victoria felt someone behind her and turned to see Orion. “Shall we take our seats, Victoria?”

“I gather you’ve found a way to deal with Finney.”

“A start,” said Orion.

As they ducked back under the tent flap and strolled down the center aisle toward their seats, Orion asked, “Who were those two?”

“None other than Basilio and Maria Rosa Vulpone.”

“The wife?”

Victoria smiled. “I believe she’s shaped up.”

“I guess so.”

They greeted people around them and took their seats.

Trip Barnes, the auctioneer, started off with banter that warmed up the crowd and led to spirited bidding. The more outrageous Trip’s comments, the higher the bids went. A watercolor by a well-known Island artist started at five hundred dollars and sold for five thousand. A day of fishing with a local boater went for three thousand. Breakfast for eight prepared by a local celebrity vocalist and accompanied by her singing went for eleven thousand.

Bill Williams’s offer of a seat in the press box at a Giants game went, to Maria Rosa, for six thousand.

Small items such as autographed books, costume jewelry, a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast, and a floral arrangement went for vast sums of money.

By four o’clock the auction had raised more than three hundred thousand dollars, and the ride on the Ditch Witch drill rig was next, the last item to be offered.

Trip beckoned to a high school student dressed in the purple uniform of the Regional High School band and he climbed the several steps to the stage. The kid, lanky, with his spiky hair dyed purple to match his uniform, carried a snare drum on a harness around his shoulders and waist. At Trip’s signal he began a drumroll that went on for a full minute.

Once he had the attention of the crowd, Trip held up both arms. The kid lifted his drumsticks.

“Our final item, ladies and gentlemen, the item you’ve been waiting for, the item that may never again be offered to the public, the item that, if you win, your grandchildren will tell their grandchildren about is…” He lowered his arms and the drumroll started up again for a few seconds and stopped.

“… fabulous, unique. A ride from the Yacht Club up North Water Street aboard a Ditch Witch horizontal directional drilling unit, a fantastic machine, to a fabled captain’s house where you will play host to a luncheon for fifty—did I say fifty? Yes, ladies and gentlemen—fifty people of your choice. Friends, business associates, people you want to impress, people you can’t stand…”

Laughter.

“And the name of the drill rig, alone, ladies and gentlemen, is worth emptying your bank accounts for. We begin the bid at five thousand. Do I hear five thousand, five thousand?” He pointed. “Six thousand, six thousand?” He pointed. “Seven, give me a seven.” He pointed.

Roger Paulson nodded.

“Eight thousand, eight?”

The bidding went on up until only three people were bidding, up to ten, twelve, and slowed. Paulson dropped out. Two people were still bidding.

“Thirteen thousand, ladies and gentlemen. The gentleman in the blue suit, do I hear thirteen? Yes. The lady with the emerald necklace, want to go for fourteen? Yes.” He pointed. “Sir, fifteen? Yes. Ma’am, sixteen? Yes, thank you, ma’am. Sir, you can’t let some young slip of a thing outbid you, do I hear seventeen? Yes.” Pointing. “Ma’am, you don’t want that fat slob to outbid you.”

Laughter.

“Eighteen, do I hear eighteen, ma’am? Stand up for your rights. Eighteen, eighteen. Thank you.”

“Nineteen!” shouted Basilio.

“Twenty!” cried Maria Rosa.

“Twenty-one, you bitch!” shouted Basilio.

“Sir, sir, please!” called out Trip.

“Twenty-two,” cried Maria Rosa.

“Twenty-three,” shouted Basilio.

Trip looked from one to the other and shrugged at the audience.

The high school drummer waited with drumsticks lifted.

“Twenty-four!”

“Twenty-five!”

Trip called out, “You sure the check won’t bounce?”

Laughter.

“Twenty-six!” cried out Maria Rosa. “Twenty-six!”

“Sir?” asked Trip.

“Bitch,” said Basilio.

“Twenty-six thousand?” said Trip. “Sir?”

Basilio growled.

“Going,” said Trip. “Going, going, going, gone! For twenty-six thousand dollars to the angel in the emerald necklace!”

The drummer drummed. The audience applauded, a standing ovation. Victoria turned to Orion. “What do you suppose that was all about?”

Orion grinned. “I can only guess.”

“I wonder where Dorothy is.”

It was some time before things quieted down enough for Trip to announce that tea, meaning champagne and gourmet cakes and sandwiches, was served, and that winning bidders should take their checks to the volunteer at the table to his right.

Matt Pease, the photographer for the
Island Enquirer,
came by. “Mrs. Trumbull, have you seen the woman who contributed the Ditch Witch item? Great story.”

“Dorothy Roche,” said Victoria. “I saw her before the event. She was in a minor accident, so she may be shy about being photographed.”

“I’ll keep looking for her. She hasn’t left, according to the gatekeepers.”

“She’s probably hiding,” said Orion. “She’s a mess with black eyes and a broken nose.”

“Hiding where, though?” Victoria shook her head. “Something’s not right.”

Trip held up his hands. “Thank you all, ladies and gentlemen, for the most successful auction in the history of the Outstretched Palm Fund. We’ve topped four hundred thousand dollars.”

C
HAPTER
38

People rose from their seats with a rustle of clothing, the scrape of chairs being folded, laughter, congratulations, greetings. Voices resounded under the canvas of the tent.

“Wait here, Victoria. I’ll get you a glass of champagne and a plate of food,” said Orion, and moved along with the crowd away from the tent.

As soon as he turned his back, Victoria headed toward the stage, where Trip was gathering papers together.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Trumbull.” Trip snapped an elastic around the papers and stowed them in an inner pocket of his vest. “Some action, all right.”

“Wonderful job, Trip. Have you seen Dorothy Roche?”

“Not since before the bidding started. I’m surprised she wasn’t here to accept congratulations. Twenty-six thousand is an all-time record. Press was looking for her.”

“I’ve got to find her.”

“When you do, tell her how much we appreciate what she’s done for the community. I’ve got to uncork champagne. Anything I can do for you before I leave?”

“No, thank you. I’ll look for Dorothy.”

The stage was set up in front of the wide flower border backed by the tall privet hedge. Victoria climbed down the back steps of the stage, holding the railing tightly. Dorothy had been drinking. She’d probably decided to keep out of sight of the crowd. She did look ghastly.

The noise of the crowd had faded to the far corner of the area. Victoria heard crickets and the creak and snap of stage boards adjusting to whatever boards adjusted to.

The platform was about three and a half feet above the soft grass. Dorothy was so obviously drunk, perhaps she’d crawled under the stage where it was cool, like a stray pup. When Victoria had caught her breath, she leaned down, bracing herself with her stick. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim light underneath.

The smells under the stage were a mixture of mown grass, the slightly vanilla-like fragrance of the sun-washed wooden stage, and moist rich earth.

No scent of Dorothy.

Victoria was somewhat relieved. The flower border was an ideal hiding place. Dorothy might have settled in there.

Victoria walked along the border, parting the lush growth with her stick and calling Dorothy’s name. She hadn’t realized how wide the border was. There was room for a card table and four bridge players to hide. The fragrance of the flowers was overwhelming, now she was close to them, and bruising the blossoms as she probed with her stick.

Then she spotted a crushed path into the flowers and her nose picked up the scent of Dorothy’s perfume. She pushed the dense growth aside with a feeling of dread.

*   *   *

Orion returned with two plates of food and two flutes of champagne. Most of the chairs had been moved closer to the food, and he stood at the seats he and Victoria had occupied. He assumed Victoria would be in the shelter of the tent, out of the sun, but he didn’t see her.

As he was puzzling over his next move, Victoria appeared from the back of the stage. Her face was flushed and she was clearly upset. When she saw him, she hurried across the stage, and he met her at the steps the drummer boy had used earlier.

“What is it, Victoria?”

“I found Dorothy. Do you have your phone with you?”

“Is she all right?”

“We need an ambulance.”

“She’s not dead, is she?”

“She’s still breathing.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed 911.

“Ask them not to upset the crowd,” said Victoria as Orion spoke to the communications center.

He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “The police?”

“Tell them to let Casey know. This isn’t our jurisdiction, but…”

Orion passed on the message, then snapped his phone shut. “The ambulance and Casey are on their way. So are Edgartown police and the state police.”

“I’ve got to go back to her.”

“I’ll let Trip know what’s going on, and be right with you. Where is she?”

“Lying on her back in the flower border, pretty well hidden. Behind a large clump of crushed delphiniums, with an empty bottle of Scotch.”

*   *   *

“I don’t know how you do it, Victoria,” said Casey, after the ambulance had taken Dorothy away. “The reporter for the paper was looking for her, but no one else would have thought a thing about her not being around.”

“She was drunk,” said Victoria.

“The bartenders refused to serve her after she’d had at least five drinks. But you know we found an empty pint of Scotch near her in the flower garden, and another almost-empty pint in her handbag. That much alcohol in her bloodstream, she’d be dead, if you hadn’t found her.”

*   *   *

When Victoria stopped at the door of Dorothy’s hospital room that evening, she had to control her aversion to the wraith on the bed. Dorothy looked like death itself.

She lay on her back, her skin gray, eyes closed, arms by her sides resting on the light blanket that covered her up to her waist. Clear oxygen tubes led to her swollen and bruised nose. Her black eyes had turned a hideous yellowish green. An IV drip was taped to her right arm, and a plastic identification tag was snapped around her left wrist. The hospital gown, which looked like some man’s underwear, completed the dreary picture of the once glamorous Dorothy.

Victoria shuddered.

“Auntie Vic, are you okay?”

Victoria spun around, almost losing her balance. Her grandniece, Hope, head nurse at the hospital, steadied her.

“Whoa, Auntie Vic. Take it easy. She’ll recover.” Hope kept her arm around Victoria’s shoulder. “Friend of yours?”

Victoria shook her head, unable to speak.

“Whatever. I’ll assume you’re the person responsible for her now. Privacy rules, you know. Come on into her room and sit down. You look as if you need to.”

Victoria followed this cherished strong grandniece into the room and sat in the chair by the window at the foot of Dorothy’s bed feeling unaccustomedly helpless.

“Acute alcohol poisoning, as I guess you suspected.”

Victoria was vaguely aware of the bird feeder hanging outside the window, full of tiny chattering sparrows, and the rose garden in full blowzy bloom beyond.

“We pumped out her stomach, tested her blood alcohol level—almost point seven, incredibly high—gave her a shot of vitamin B, and put her on a dextrose drip.”