The Bee Balm Murders (8 page)

Victoria put her book aside. “How’s your back?”

“Not bad. How are
you
feeling?”

“The Lyme disease medicine makes me a bit queasy, so I try not to think about how I feel.”

“You’re on doxycycline?”

“For twenty-one days. Seventeen more to go.”

“I haven’t talked to you since your luncheon with Dorothy on Saturday. How was it?”

“Lovely. We ate in the garden under the grape arbor.”

“Have you changed your opinion about her?”

Victoria thought for a second. Orion was clearly taken with Dorothy, and she wasn’t sure how candid she could be. “She was a perfect hostess. Everything was just so.”

“But?” Orion rested his elbows on the chair arms and laced his hands together. “You’re not answering.” His pleasant expression took the sting out of the rebuke.

Victoria reached for the glass of water on the end table. “She’s really not my sort, I’m afraid.”

“Why so?”

“Everything seemed artificial, almost temporary. Even Dorothy, herself, was playing a role of some kind.”

Orion leaned forward slightly. “For example?”

“Her driver and maid are summer help. The house isn’t her own. I’m sure it’s rented. It’s like an expensive hotel. Yet Dorothy pointed out improvements as though they were hers. She’s had cosmetic surgery on her face. It was all part of the artificiality.”

“For some reason, I was under the impression you’d known her for some time,” said Orion.

“Hardly. She was introduced to me at a gallery opening two months ago, and immediately after she was introduced, a more noteworthy celebrity on the other side of the room attracted her attention and she excused herself.”

Orion’s pleasant expression returned. “Perhaps the luncheon was an attempt to make amends.”

“The luncheon was because she believes she can use me in some way. How, I don’t know.” Victoria picked up her glass and wiped off the condensation that had formed a wet circle on the end table. “If I were you, Orion, I’d be careful. She’s not at all what she seems to be.”

*   *   *

The next morning, Tim parked Dorothy’s Mercedes in the loading zone across from the Mansion House. He crossed Main Street and went into the lobby where Finney Solomon was seated, legs crossed, reading
The Wall Street Journal
.

“Mr. Solomon?”

“Yes?” Finney looked up. “From Ms. Roche?”

“Yes, sir. I’m parked across the street.”

Finney arose, folded the paper and tucked it under his arm, picked up his briefcase, then followed Tim out to the car. They drove in silence toward Edgartown. Finney worked his laptop; Tim concentrated on avoiding the early morning summer people who wandered down the middle of Beach Road, talking on their cell phones, figuring, apparently, that since they were on vacation, no harm could come to them.

Finney looked up briefly from his laptop. “What’s holding things up?”

“Traffic, sir,” said Tim, who knew better than to honk the horn.

They drove through Oak Bluffs, quiet this early in the day, and along State Beach, with banks of wild roses on their right and blanketing the low dunes to their left. Beyond the dunes, the waters of Nantucket Sound shaded from pale green to a rich ultramarine far out. Tim looked over to Finney to see if his passenger appreciated this stretch of the Island, but Finney was intent on his laptop. He stopped typing briefly to answer his cell phone, which had rung with a snatch of
Pachelbel’s Canon
, said a short sentence that Tim couldn’t make out, and snapped the phone shut.

“Reception is poor,” he said to Tim. “Is this usual?”

“Yes, sir,” said Tim.

Finney went back to work without further comment.

Tim slowed at the outskirts of Edgartown and inched along in a tangle of cars past the Triangle, past the Stop & Shop, and onto Edgartown’s Main Street. Left onto North Water Street and, voilà! Home.

His home, Tim told himself, at least for the summer. In September, the Island would disappear into the mist like
Brigadoon
, not to appear again until next summer.

*   *   *

Dorothy met Finney at the door. She was older than Finney had expected, probably late fifties. Well-preserved, he told himself. Looking at the beautifully maintained house he decided he liked older women.

“I’m delighted you could come, Mr. Solomon,” she said. “I see you’ve brought your laptop. We’re going to have a wonderfully productive meeting. You do want coffee, don’t you? Or would you prefer tea?”

“Coffee, please,” said Finney. “Black.”

“Just the way I like mine!” exclaimed Dorothy, clasping her hands under her small chin in a charmingly girlish way. “Courtney will bring our coffee to us in the garden. And we can be private there.” She smiled up at him. “And breakfast whenever we want. I’m sure you’re hungry?”

He smiled at her. “Sounds like a plan, Ms. Roche.”

She pointed to herself and looked up at him. “I’m Dorothy. May I call you Finney?”

Finney looked down at her and nodded.

They went out the side door, past the fishpond, down the slate path, and seated themselves under the grape arbor at the glass-topped table. He set his laptop on the paving.

“Nice,” said Finney, leaning back in his wrought-iron chair. The filtered light coming through the grapevines gave Dorothy’s face an attractive softness. “Peaceful here. How long have you had this place?”

“It’s my summer house,” said Dorothy. “Here’s Courtney now with our coffee. Thank you, darling. You can leave the coffeepot on the table. And Courtney, dear, we’ll have breakfast whenever you have it ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Courtney, and walked lightly down the garden path toward the house.

“Nice girl. Has she been with you long?”

“‘Woman,’ dear.” Dorothy patted his hand. “She’s a student at Brown. Why don’t we get right down to business.”

“Good idea,” said Finney, taking a sip of the excellent coffee. “I understand you’re buying into Universal Fiber Optics, Nanopoulos’s company.”

“I’m acquiring the Ditch Witch horizontal directional drill as my share in the company. Isn’t that a wonderful name for such a machine!”

Finney glanced up at the safely contained grapevines above them. “Orion tells me you’re financing the rig.”

“According to my accountant, that was the most advantageous way for me to do it.”

“Sometimes it is,” said Finney cautiously. “How did you hear about the fiber-optics project?”

“A friend mentioned it. I wanted to learn more.” She looked over the rim of her delicate cup at Finney. “So I went to the selectmen’s meeting and heard Orion speak and, well, I was impressed.”

“Rightly so,” said Finney. “He knows what he’s talking about. My friend, Angelo Vulpone—”

Dorothy clasped her hands again. “I’m so sorry. I heard you were great friends. What a tragedy.”

“A great loss. Angelo endorsed the fiber-optics project so strongly, we won’t have any trouble raising the money we need.” Finney took a sip of coffee. “Did you know Angelo, by any chance?”

Dorothy looked away. “Not well.” She smiled. “How much do we need?”

Finney was caught off guard by the “we.” “The project cost is estimated at twenty-four million. Nanopoulos has commitments for ten, so we need an additional fourteen.”

Dorothy gazed at him with admiration. “And you’ll be able to raise the whole fourteen million?”

“No problem,” said Finney, a bit uncomfortable now that he’d mentioned numbers. But she was part of the company, he told himself, and he felt better thinking that. He lifted his coffee cup. “The best coffee I’ve tasted in a long time—Dorothy.”

“I’m glad you like it, Finney.” Dorothy leaned toward him. “You must have wonderful contacts. I’m sure they think highly of you to trust your judgment.”

Finney shrugged and started to demur, but Dorothy exclaimed, “Here’s our breakfast!”

Courtney was wheeling a serving cart down the path. As it approached, the aroma of bacon and sausage and cinnamon made Finney realize how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten much the day before. He’d been too tense about the meeting with Nanopoulos and his partner.

Courtney lifted the lid of a chafing dish. Two golden omelets oozing melted cheese and topped with chives, and a half-dozen little sausages, and another half-dozen rashers of bacon.

Courtney reached to a lower shelf on the cart where a magnum of champagne was chilling in an ice bucket. Holding the bottle in a linen napkin, she showed it to Finney.

“Good heavens!” said Finney, looking at the label.

Dorothy put her hand on his arm. “If you don’t see what you like, just ask,” she said, and she smiled.

Courtney eased the cork out of the bottle and poured the champagne into two flutes. “Will there be anything else, madam?”

“No, thank you, darling. That’s lovely. We can take care of ourselves from now on.” She glanced at Finney. “Can’t we, Finney,” she added after Courtney had wheeled the empty cart away.

“Perfection,” said Finney, raising his glass.

Dorothy held her own glass up. “To the success of a perfect project.”

After that, they talked in general terms about the project—general because Finney didn’t understand the technology at all and Dorothy apparently didn’t, either. Finney made a feeble offer to check some information on his laptop, but Dorothy insisted that could wait. They toasted each other with champagne and served themselves fresh strawberries with thick cream poured on top.

“You must try honey on the strawberries,” said Dorothy. “It’s Island honey produced by Island bees.”

“Island bees,” Finney murmured. “I’m allergic to bee stings.” He nodded at the screening under the grapes above them. “I’m glad to see you keep your yellow jackets contained.” He held up the honey jar to the morning sun.

“Local honey is supposed to alleviate allergies,” said Dorothy. “Go ahead, try it.”

“I don’t think that applies to insect stings.” He said again how much Angelo would have liked to be involved with the project and how Angelo thought the project was a winner. This theme was voiced repeatedly throughout breakfast and the magnum of champagne.

“When do you expect to pay off the rig?” asked Finney.

“I’m leaving that up to my accountant to work out,” said Dorothy. “I think micromanaging is so unprofessional.”

“Very wise,” said Finney.

“What do you think of Orion?” asked Dorothy abruptly.

Following the sudden change in topic, Finney had to think a moment. “I just met him yesterday, but he seems like a competent guy. Intelligent. Certainly knows his stuff. Why do you ask?”

Dorothy toyed with her spoon, making swirls of honey and cream on the bottom of her crystal bowl. “Did he seem, well, I don’t like to say anything.”

Finney leaned forward and put his hand on top of hers. “If it’s anything to do with the company or the project, tell me.” He realized how much he enjoyed the company of an older woman, especially a wealthy one.

“Not really,” said Dorothy, blotting her mouth with a dainty linen napkin. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Out with it,” said Finney, feeling manly.

“It’s nothing, really. I think I’m just overly sensitive, and it seemed to me he’s been under a great deal of pressure lately. Please, forget I said anything.”

“Of course,” said Finney. “A project like this is bound to create a lot of pressure.”

“That’s right,” said Dorothy. “He’s such a sweet man; I hate to see the pressure getting to him. I’m sorry, Finney, darling. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

But when Finney was in the Mercedes on his way back to Vineyard Haven, he spent the time thinking how he could check up on Orion Nanopoulos’s mental stability without being too obvious.

C
HAPTER
11

While Finney and Dorothy were breakfasting alfresco, Victoria was cutting a bouquet of black-eyed Susans. She happened to look toward Sean’s beehives and saw a pineapple-shaped black object hanging from the wild cherry tree. When she looked more closely, she realized the object was a mass of bees in constant motion. She went into the house as quickly as she could and called Sean.

“Your bees are swarming. They’re hanging from a branch. What would you like me to do?”

“Nothing. I’ll be there shortly.”

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” said Victoria.

“Keep your distance,” said Sean.

He arrived ten minutes later.

“Are they leaving the hive?” Victoria asked.

“These are.”

“That’s the end of the hive then?”

He shook his head. “That’s how bee colonies reproduce. Half the hive takes off with the old queen and a new queen develops in the old hive.”

“It’s alarming to see that many bees in a swarm.”

“They’re not usually aggressive when they swarm. They’ve got other things on their minds.”

He slipped his legs into the white suit and stuck his arms into the sleeves. “That’s not to say they won’t attack when they’re swarming. They will if they’re threatened.”

He pulled the suit over his shoulders, zipped up the front, lifted the hood onto his head, and pulled the gauntlets over his hands.

Victoria watched as he held an open wooden box under the swarm and knocked it gently into the box as if it were some exotic fruit he was harvesting. He closed the lid.

Victoria applauded the performance from her seat.

“You’ve got eight hives now, Mrs. T. At least you will if the bees like their new home.” Sean shed his suit and stowed his tools away. Finished, he found a towel in a corner of the truck, and came over to Victoria’s bench. She moved over to make room for him.

“Hot work,” he said, wiping his face with the towel. “Hear you came down with Lyme disease.”

Victoria nodded.

“Join the gang.” He held out his hand and she shook it. “How’re you doing? That doxycycline make you nauseous?”

“A bit,” said Victoria, and changed the subject. “Do you know Dorothy Roche?”

“Hah!” said Sean. “What makes you ask about her?”

“She invited me to lunch last Saturday.”

“Lucky you.” Sean rubbed his neck with the towel.

“Where does she get her money, do you know?”

He draped the towel around his shoulders. “As far as I know, she doesn’t have two cents to rub together.”