The Bee Balm Murders (31 page)

“We need to act quickly,” said Victoria. “What about the day after tomorrow?”

*   *   *

Casey arrived first. “Smalley parked out of sight down New Lane and brought three troopers with him, all in plainclothes. I don’t need to tell you, Victoria, he’s not happy about this. He’s bending all kinds of rules and is justifying it on the basis of my telling him that’s the way we do things on this Island.”

“If nothing else, it’s a good practice session,” said Victoria. “Where are they?”

“One’s in the kitchen playing chef’s assistant and monitoring the two outside doors, a second is trimming the bushes around the front door, monitoring that. The third is upstairs with electronic eavesdropping equipment—you signed all the papers, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

Doc Yablonsky arrived. Then the poets. Maria Rosa swept in wearing a pale blue linen sheath and her emerald necklace followed by her tall new friend, Bill Williams.

The doc strode over to them and held out his hand to Williams. “Bill Yablonsky, here. I’m a great fan of your broadcasts.”

“The poet? G. William Yablonsky?” said Bill Williams. “My god, I love your work.”

Finney Solomon arrived and glanced around furtively. Orion was in the library, opening wine. Finney recognized Maria Rosa and her emerald necklace from the Outstretched Palm auction and introduced himself to her.

Maria Rosa smiled.

Finney glanced around again and said, “I’m with the company that owns the drill rig. I have a prospectus here.” He reached into an inside pocket. “Since you were interested in the auction item, you might like to invest in the company.” He held out the prospectus. “I’m chief financial officer. Mentored by none other than the great Angelo Vulpone.”

Maria Rosa looked down at her formfitting dress. “Why don’t you mail it to me. I’m Maria Rosa Vulpone, Angelo’s sister-in-…”

At the mention of her name, Finney gulped, withdrew the outstretched prospectus, and looked over his shoulder. Orion stood behind him, grinning.

“Excuse me,” Finney mumbled. “I see someone I must talk to.” And he darted away.

“What an odd man,” Maria Rosa said to Orion.

Roger Paulson came with a huge bunch of wildflowers. Sean, with a quart jar of honey. Basilio arrived and pointedly ignored his wife and her escort. The reporter and photographer from the
Island Enquirer
showed up. Victoria’s book launch was an occasion no one wanted to miss.

Primo carried a tray of filled wineglasses out of the library, doing a double take when he recognized his aunt. He set the tray down and kissed her on both cheeks.

“You look fantastic!
Bellissima!
”

Maria Rosa laughed a beautiful, silvery laugh. “This is my friend, Bill Williams.”

“The Bill Williams!” said Primo, glancing from his aunt to the man next to her. “Wow!”

Basilio looked over briefly, grunted, and seated himself near the food.

The reporter moved around asking innocuous questions. The photographer snapped away, unnoticed.

The false Dorothy Roche sidled in through the kitchen door. The green around her eyes had faded to yellow, giving her a jaundiced look. She wore a sundress and a straw hat with pink and green silk flowers that matched her dress. She found Victoria. “Darling, thank you so much for inviting me.”

“Of course,” said Victoria.

At that point, Dorothy the true, star of Basilio’s vampire films, came through the front door. The air around the actress seemed to shimmer. Her long, blue-black, silky hair fell almost to her waist. Her face was pure ivory. Her eyes, rich almonds. Her simple black dress emphasized the figure that triggered dozens of fan letters each week.

Basilio choked on the ham-and-cheese biscuit he’d stuffed into his mouth a moment before. Bill Williams strode over and slapped him on the back until Basilio coughed up the biscuit crumbs.

Victoria introduced the actress.

Dorothy the false put her hands up to her throat where she wore a chunky strand of pink, green, and blue shells in place of the sapphire necklace.

Primo passed through the gathering filling glasses for the third or fourth time, Victoria had lost count.

Orion reappeared in the dining room.

Dorothy the false said, “Darling! I hope you’ve forgiven me?”

Orion put an arm around her shoulder. “I think this is a good time to congratulate Victoria on the publication of her new book.” He held up his glass.

“Hear, hear!” said Doc Yablonsky. “Speech, Victoria.”

Victoria stepped forward, the crowd moved back. Orion brought out a chair from the library for her.

Most of the group found seats, some stood. Basilio reached for another biscuit.

“I’ve written a prose poem for this occasion,” Victoria said. “I prefer formal poetry, the kind with meter and rhyme, but this seemed appropriate.” She rustled a sheaf of pages, handwritten in her loopy backhand, and looked up. “I’m afraid I’ve got the pages out of order.”

A few smiles.

“Here we are.” She read in her deep, clear voice. The poem was about bees and the magical rites of a beekeeper and the beekeeper’s young apprentice. It told how the apprentice played a near lethal trick with bees, and spoke of his attempt to make amends. Truth was woven into fantasy. The apprentice saw a winged fiend carrying poison away from the Island, witnessed the slaying of the fiend’s disciple, whose body was left in a carriage along with the bones of other creatures to be eaten by vultures.

Victoria read on.

Doc Yablonsky stood transfixed. Bill Williams nodded in appreciation. Casey and Orion watched the group.

At the mention of the winged fiend, Basilio glanced at the false Dorothy, who was examining her nails. Further into the poem, Basilio looked at his watch and stood.

He interrupted the smooth flow of Victoria’s story. “Sorry to interrupt, folks. I’ve got a previous engagement. Nice to have met you all.”

Victoria held her finger at the place where she’d stopped reading.

Dorothy the false also stood. “You’re not leaving me like this.”

The assemblage looked from Basilio to the false Dorothy and back, eyes watching a tennis match.

“What in hell you talking about?” Basilio bunched up his fists.

The group, standing and sitting, was still, not a movement, not a sound, not a heartbeat, not a breath.

“You’d hit me, wouldn’t you?” She pointed at his fists. “You killer!”

“Shut up!”

“Jealous of your brother, weren’t you?”

Someone cleared his throat.

“What in hell you talking about, bitch?”

Dorothy’s hat had slipped down on her forehead. She pushed it back, exposing a tuft of metallic red hair, damp with sweat. “You’re not half the man your brother was.”

“Bitch! Bitch!” Basilio reached across the table, knocking over the flowers Roger Paulson had brought. No one moved and the water ran across the table and dripped onto the floor. He grabbed her shell necklace and yanked her toward him partway across the table. “That spy of yours. Found out too much? He want more money?”

“Let go of me!” she screamed. “You’re choking me.”

He yanked harder and the necklace broke, scattering shells over the table and floor. She fell backward and Bill Williams caught her.

From where she sat, Victoria could see no movement except for eyes. The group was carved out of tree trunks.

“You think you’re such hot shit, you stupid bitch. Thought you could set yourself up in my brother’s company.”

“Your brother’s company? That wasn’t your brother’s company. He never put a cent into it.”

Basilio stopped suddenly. “I see it all now. You hated him, didn’t you? Threw you over, hey?”

“Don’t spin that on me.”

The group moved slightly, one organism, as the battle between Basilio and the false Dorothy shifted.

Victoria, eyes half-closed, watched and waited. The half of her poem she hadn’t yet read was the part she’d thought would provoke some reaction. She hadn’t expected this, and was not sure this battle between Basilio and the false Dorothy was going to unveil the killer. The two combatants had cooled down somewhat.

“You wouldn’t have the guts to kill my brother.” Basilio’s eyes moved over the group, touched on Finney and stopped. Touched on Roger Paulson and stopped. Went back to the false Dorothy.

Roger Paulson didn’t move. He stared back at Basilio, his eyes ice blue.

“I know about Waverley,” Basilio shouted suddenly, and Dorothy the false flinched. “Thought you were spying on that Orion character? Who did you think was spying on you?”

“You couldn’t,” she said softly, hands at her throat.

“Oh, no? Who rented that house for you? Who got that maid and that chauffeur for you, hey? Whose car you using, hey? You think I don’t know every goddamned move you made over the past two, three months?”

“No,” said Dorothy.

“Don’t you think the cops would like to see the proof I got?”

“You can’t have,” she said again. “I was meeting with Finney.” She looked about wildly. Finney was studying the floor, arms crossed.

“Think so, hey? Look at him. Thought he was a rich boy, hey? Thought he’d be the golden touch so you could double-cross me, hey?” Basilio jerked his head at Finney, who was still looking at the floor. “The guy’s a loser. Lives in a walk-up in Union City over a strip joint. Owes money on four credit cards he can’t pay off. Got a record for small-time stuff. Beating up girls. Can’t even do crime right. That your financial advisor?”

“He was Angelo’s friend.”

Basilio barked a nasty laugh. “Friend of Angelo’s? You think my brother would be a friend of that? My brother’s next move was to get the guy terminated, only the guy wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Finney’s face went from dead white to red and back to dead white again.

Someone coughed.

The guinea fowl in the west pasture called their metallic cries. Basilio and the false Dorothy seemed to have forgotten that a dozen people watched them, and the dozen people were frozen in place.

Dorothy’s voice was so soft Victoria could barely make out the words. “Finney killed your brother.”

“Finney? Hasn’t got the nerve.”

“He knew Angelo was on to him.”

Basilio laughed. “There’s the guy who’s hated my brother for thirty years.” Paulson was leaning against the door frame. “My brother screwed him royally. Tried to break him and couldn’t. Angelo was a louse, and I salute the guy who rid the world of him.”

Paulson said clearly, “No love lost between us.” He hadn’t moved from the door frame.

“You killed him,” said Basilio.

“You accusing me?”

“I’m asking,” said Basilio.

“Better not accuse me, Vulpone. That’s libel and I’ve got more lawyers than you do.”

Paulson pushed himself away from the door frame and stood up straight. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s getting stuffy in here.” He nodded to Victoria. “Sorry I didn’t get to hear the rest of your poem, Mrs. Trumbull. I hope to read it at some future time.”

Victoria folded up her pages. Smalley’s men closed in. Smalley said to the false Dorothy, “We’d like you to come to the barracks and make a statement, if you would.”

“Ask him, too,” Dorothy pointed at Basilio. “And him.” She pointed at Finney. “And that Paulson person.”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll talk to you and Mr. Vulpone first.”

C
HAPTER
41

After the state police left with Dorothy the false and Basilio, Victoria remained seated. Conversation slowly picked up again, mostly about the shouting match between Basilio and the false Dorothy.

Casey knelt down next to Victoria. “You okay?”

“No,” said Victoria. “Something went terribly wrong. I got only halfway through my poem before they started shouting at each other. Had they waited, things might have turned out differently.”

“Basilio was telling the state guys on the way out that he’d put a tracking device on her car and bugging devices in her house. Nice guy. When the drug enforcement guys get through with him, I hate to think what his life wil be like.” Casey shuddered.

“And Roger Paulson?” asked Victoria.

“He was waiting outside for the state police.” Casey got up from the floor and moved a chair next to Victoria. “I gotta sit.”

“He didn’t admit anything, either,” said Victoria.

“Too smart to. As he said, he’s got lawyers.”

“Something’s not right,” said Victoria.

There was a knock on the front door. Casey glanced at Victoria. “Are you expecting anyone else?”

“No one.” Victoria was too preoccupied with puzzling out what went wrong to care about company.

Someone knocked a second time. “I’ll get it,” said Casey, heading for the door.

*   *   *

Two men stood on the wide front step. Both wore wraparound sunglasses, dark suits, white shirts, and ties, and, except for a difference in height, could have been an artifact of double vision. Definitely not Islanders, thought Casey. Missionaries, perhaps. Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses?

“We’re looking for a Finney Solomon,” said the shorter of the two men.

The mob, thought Casey. Come to eliminate Finney Solomon. Victoria was right. The mob would kill openly, gun down the victim in front of friends and family.

“Please tell me who you are,” said Casey.

Both produced black leather folders from inside jacket pockets and flipped them open.

“Oh,” said Casey, examining their credentials. She suddenly felt uncomfortable out of uniform. “I’m the West Tisbury police chief. How can I help?”

“Solomon here?” asked the taller of the two.

“I believe he still is. What’s he done?”

The shorter man lifted his glasses to his forehead. “Like to see your ID, ma’am.”

“I don’t have it with me,” said Casey.

“Right. Where is he?”

Victoria had arisen from her chair. “Can I help you?” She studied the suits and ties. “Thank you for coming, but I’m active in my own church.”

“Feebs,” said Casey, straightening her skirt. “Federal agents. FBI.”

“We’re looking for Finney Solomon,” the shorter man repeated, again producing his leather folder.

“Ah,” said Victoria. “I believe he’s in the library.”