Death and Honesty

by Cynthia Riggs

  “Ocypete and Ellen.”

  “Is Selena all right?”

  “I haven’t heard.”

  “Oliver, too. That doesn’t fit at all with what I believe happened,” said Victoria almost to herself. “It’s all wrong.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Darcy dropped the limo off at Tiasquam Repairs for an oil change and walked the half-mile to Victoria’s. He turned onto New Lane, and sat with his back against a wild cherry tree that overhung Victoria’s meadow where he was sheltered from the wind. From there, he could see her house. Bees hummed around the cherry blossoms that had begun to open. Spring sunlight filtered through the branches and warmed him. After a few minutes he shed his jacket. He could see Howland’s station wagon parked under Victoria’s Norway maple. He pulled up a blade of bright new grass and chewed on it, listening to the bees and the sound of far-off surf on the south shore. He watched and waited.

  After a quarter of an hour, Howland appeared at the top of the steps with Victoria behind him. He turned and said something that made her laugh, then got into his station wagon and drove off.

  Darcy shook out his jacket, put it back on, and strolled across the stubbly pasture.

  Victoria was standing at the top of the steps, buttoning her sweater. She watched him approach. “Good morning, Darcy. Where’s your limousine?”

  “At the butcher shop.” When she looked puzzled, he added, “Tiasquam Repairs,” and then when she looked worried, “Getting an oil change.”

  “Come in. I’m relieved to see you. How in the world did you escape from jail?”

  “Thanks to you, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  “It’s almost lunchtime. Would you like an omelet?”

  “Sounds good. I’ll help.”

  Ten minutes later, Victoria slipped the golden brown omelets onto warmed plates. Darcy set out utensils and they seated themselves at the cookroom table.

  “What did you need to see me about?” Victoria asked.

  “Somebody framed me, Mrs. Trumbull. I suspect it was Henry.” Darcy leaned forward, elbows on either side of his plate.

  “Why would he?”

  “That’s what I’ve got to find out.”

  Victoria cut into her omelet. “I gather the person I called had some influence in getting you out of jail.”

  “The number you called was the private number of the woman who hired me. She called the sheriff.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “Senator Hammermill.”

  Victoria set her fork down and whistled softly. “Geraldine Hammermill? She’s on the Homeland Security oversight committee, isn’t she?”

  “She’s also on the board of trustees of Reverend True’s church.” Darcy paused to finish his own omelet. “She claims he’s been embezzling church funds.”

  “Henry?”

  Darcy nodded. “The senator contacted the FBI and they referred her to me.” He cleaned up the last morsel on his plate and sat back. “The bureau told her the situation called for a freelance operator, not the FBI. At least, not at that point.”

  “Was she alerted because Henry suddenly has money?”

  “Partly.”

  “It’s Delilah’s money he’s spending. Two million dollars in the three years they’ve been married.”

  “Henry has spent more than Delilah’s two million, and he’s not spending it on clothes. Something big is going on. The church is missing almost a million dollars.”

  Victoria set down her napkin. “It must be a wealthy church. I’d never heard of it before I met Delilah.”

  “The Eye of God is a huge operation. They’ve built a cathedral in West Virginia and another in Elko, Nevada. Churches all over the States. Television ministries throughout the world. Money pours in. The church is worth more than two billion dollars.”

  Victoria widened her eyes. “Delilah seems to think Henry is the head of this church.”

  “Good God, no. He’s way down on the pecking order. One of at least two dozen TV evangelists.”

  “But he had access to church funds, I take it.”

  “Must have. The senator and her church committee found irregularities in the financial reports and investigated over a sixor seven-month period. They concluded that Henry was the culprit. The church can’t file charges against him until they have proof.”

  “Your role is to find that proof, I gather.”

  Darcy nodded. “I don’t know what he’s spending it on. Drugs, gambling, blackmail—something that requires a large sum of money.”

  “Why are you coming to me?”

  “With the murder of the pilot …” Darcy paused. “I don’t know whether you’d heard, he was strangled, like Tillie and Lucy.”

  “I hadn’t heard.” Victoria took a deep breath. “That makes it even more likely that the murders are connected.”

  “Henry’s not sure who or what I am.” Darcy gazed out of the window where the steeple of the village church was visible over the trees. “He’s uncomfortable around me. Doesn’t know whether I’m Delilah’s boy toy or whether I’ve been sent by someone to break his knees.”

  “Perhaps Henry wants to deflect blame from himself.”

  “Henry apparently spent the night the pilot was killed with Delilah, although that’s open to question.”

  “I thought Henry was banished to the guesthouse.”

  Darcy smiled. “Around ten he slipped out of the guesthouse and into the main house and, I assume, Delilah’s heart-shaped bed.”

  “Heart-shaped?”

  “Trust me,” said Darcy. “Our girl can’t resist Henry, even if he and she aren’t speaking.”

  “Have the police notified his family?”

  “The pilot’s? I don’t know. His family may be difficult to track down. He told Henry his name was Cappy Jessup, but I knew him as Frank Morris. He wasn’t Henry’s regular pilot.”

  Victoria suddenly recalled the phone call Howland had received before Darcy arrived. “Oliver Ashpine and two of the three assessors, Ocypete Rotch and Ellen Meadows, are in the hospital. They’ve been poisoned.”

  “What!”

  “Someone called Howland from the hospital while he was here. That’s all I know. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Did the hospital give out any details?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not. Privacy laws.” Darcy drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Someone singled out two of the assessors and their clerk. I wonder if Selena Moon is all right.”

  “Strange,” said Darcy.

  “I agree. Perhaps a disgruntled taxpayer has taken matters into his own hands.”

  “By the way,” Darcy grinned suddenly, “I need your help.”

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “Find out what’s going on between Henry and Lee.”

  “Why Lee?”

  “Lee’s been Delilah’s maid for five months. When I arrived two weeks ago, I got the impression Henry hadn’t even noticed her. That’s changed over the last day or so. Something’s happened between them.” He brushed crumbs off his hands onto his napkin and crumpled it.

  “She’s certainly attractive,” said Victoria. “I was under the impression you were interested in her.”

  Darcy shook his head. “My work doesn’t include fraternizing with the staff. Henry treats Lee like a commodity. Doesn’t seem to be personal. What’s he up to?”

  “I can’t imagine. His television show?”

  “Fundamentalist Christian? Not Lee.”

  Victoria thought for a long time. “All these strands must be connected—the three deaths, the assessors’ scam, Henry’s money, Oliver Ashpine.” She looked up at the beams in the cookroom ceiling and the collection of baskets hanging from them. “Poisoning doesn’t fit, does it?”

  Both were quiet.

  “Oliver Ashpine,” said Victoria again. “Oliver Ashpine. I wonder … ?”

  “What I wonder,” Darcy interrupted, “is why two as
sessors were poisoned and not the third.”

  “Selena.” Victoria sat forward. “I’ve got to call to make sure she’s all right.”

  After Howland left Victoria’s, he drove to Town Hall. On the first floor, he nodded to Mrs. Danvers, who peered at him over the top of her glasses without a greeting. He climbed the stairs to the second floor. None of the other Town Hall workers had arrived yet. He checked his watch. Almost ten o’clock.

  He ensconced himself in Oliver Ashpine’s chair, switched on Oliver’s computer, and waited for it to boot up. Where would Oliver have filed the video he’d been watching? Howland opened various folders and files, but nothing seemed to lead to a porn video until he saw a folder labeled “Honeybee.”

  “I can’t believe the man would be that stupid,” Howland muttered, as he clicked the mouse on “Honeybee.”

  But the video opened, in full glowing color with sound. Howland quickly lowered the volume before Mrs. Danvers could hear it.

  The segment that pictured Delilah was less than three minutes long, lost in an hour-long episode that showed interminable variations on the theme of writhing, sweaty bodies. How on earth did Oliver wade through all that garbage to identify those few minutes?

  No doubt about the identity of Delilah, now that he knew what he was looking for. He’d brought a blank disk with him and copied the three minutes onto it. He wasn’t sure what he could, or should, do with his copy, but he slipped the disk into its paper folder and stowed it in his green canvas briefcase.

  A small candy box sat on the corner of Oliver’s desk. Howland had eyed the white box while he worked. He was moderate in most temptations, but not when it came to sweets. He opened it and looked in. Fruit jellies. Oliver would never miss one piece.

  But if he ate that first piece he’d eat the next, and nothing would be left in Oliver’s box. With a sigh, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, rubbed his nose, closed down Oliver’s computer, and went downstairs.

  “Find what you wanted?” asked Mrs. Danvers.

  “Yes, thanks,” said Howland. “Where is everyone? It’s after eleven.”

  Mrs. Danvers turned to her computer. “The selectmen sent the staff to what they call ‘Graciousness Training.”’

  Howland hid his grin behind a cough and thought of the fruit jellies he hadn’t touched.

  CHAPTER 20

  Victoria washed their luncheon dishes, and Darcy dried.

  “Connections. You may be right, Mrs. Trumbull. The three murders might be connected, but damned if I can see how.” He looked out of the window. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  West Tisbury’s police Bronco pulled into the drive.

  Victoria arose.

  “I’m getting out of here,” said Darcy.

  “Wait a bit.” Victoria was almost at the door when a second vehicle pulled up behind the Bronco. A shield on the side showed a bunch of grapes surmounted by what looked like a crown with a sail and a harpoon about to strike something, presumably a whale. Above the shield was the announcement in gold letters, “County of Dukes County” and below the shield, also in gold letters, “Sheriff.”

  “I’m gone,” said Darcy, and headed toward the door that led into the woodshed. He shut the door behind him. A moment later, he opened the door, retrieved his mug, and left the door open a crack.

  A third vehicle pulled up as Victoria went outside. This one had a circular emblem with an Indian in the center holding a bow and arrows. A star shone over his shoulder. Gold lettering around the circle read “Massachusetts State Police.”

  Junior Norton was driving the Bronco. Casey lowered the window on the passenger side. “The guys want to talk to you, Victoria.” She nodded at the two vehicles behind her.

  “Ask them to park so they don’t block my driveway.”

  A few minutes later, five law enforcement officers gathered around the table in Victoria’s cookroom, Casey and Junior Norton of the West Tisbury Police, Sergeant Smalley and Trooper Tim Eldredge of the state police, and Sheriff Look of the County of Dukes County.

  “Good morning,” said Victoria. “Nice day.”

  “Morning, Mrs. Trumbull.” Sergeant Smalley nodded. “Seems as though we’ve hit a dead end, and we’d like to talk to you.”

  “Would you like coffee? I’ll make fresh.”

  “That would be fine,” said Smalley.

  Tim Eldredge got up. “I’ll make it, ma’am. Your coffeemaker is like my grandmother’s.”

  Victoria drew up her chair so it faced the door to the woodshed, her back to the meadow.

  After some small talk, Smalley cleared his throat. “We’d like to ask you for assistance.”

  Victoria smoothed her hair. “I’m not sure how I can help, but I’ll be glad to do whatever I can.”

  When the coffee finished dripping, Tim brought in steaming mugs and cream and sugar, passed them around, and seated himself next to Smalley.

  Smalley gestured around the table for Victoria’s benefit. “As you’ve undoubtedly gathered, Mrs. Trumbull, the Island’s law enforcement agencies are cooperating on the recent deaths in West Tisbury.”

  “Tillie Willoughby, Lucy Pease, and Cappy Jessup, the pilot,” Casey reminded.

  “All three were throttled,” said Smalley. “I understand, Mrs. Trumbull, that you discovered two of the three bodies. I’m sorry you had to go through that. Terrible.”

  Sheriff Look leaned toward Victoria, his arms folded on the table. “You’ve had dealings with Darcy Remey, also known as Emery Meyer, the man we held for questioning, haven’t you?”

  When Victoria visited Darcy at the jail, the sheriff had been friendly. Now he was almost hostile. “Yes,” Victoria said. “I know who he is.”

  “What can you tell us about him?”

  Casey interrupted. “You should mention, Victoria, that you met him some time ago when he was called Emery Meyer.”

  “Jewel thief, isn’t he?” asked the sheriff.

  “That’s open to question.” Victoria’s jaw tightened. “He’s well-educated.” She thought of Darcy’s collection of her poetry. “Widely traveled, and he’s taken a position as chauffeur with the television star Delilah Sampson.”

  “Senator Hammermill of West Virginia demanded that we release him, whatever his name is.”

  “You had no reason to hold him.”

  “Only that he found the pilot’s body, moved it, took his time about calling the authorities, and, according to Reverend True, knew the deceased.” The sheriff smiled. “Not conclusive, but suggestive.”

  Victoria sat up straight. “Since I found two of the bodies, am I a suspect?”

  “No, ma’am. Not at all.”

  “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about,” Victoria pushed her chair away from the table, “the guilt or innocence of Miss Sampson’s chauffeur? I have nothing further to say to you.” She started to rise.

  Smalley held up a hand. “Hold it, Tom. I think we’re off to a wrong start.”

  “Indeed,” said Victoria.

  “Please, Mrs. Trumbull,” Smalley said. “We were hoping you could shed some light on several things that have all of us …” he paused. “Quite frankly, we’re stumped.”

  Victoria sat again, but her mouth was still turned down. “Where would you like to start?”

  “It’s unheard of to have three unrelated unexplained murders occur within such a short time. We’ve discussed this among ourselves—the West Tisbury police, state police, and sheriff’s office—and can’t find any common thread that would connect them. And yet …” Smalley shrugged.

  “The three murders definitely are connected,” said Victoria.

  Smalley lifted his shoulders. “We can’t see how.”

  “If I were you, I’d start with the assessors.”

  “The assessors have nothing to do with the murders,” said the sheriff.

  “Did you know that they’re skimming money off the town’s taxes and have been for years?”

  Sheriff Look and Sergeant Smal
ley glanced at each other and then at Casey. Tim Eldredge wrote in his notebook. Junior Norton watched Casey, who pushed her coffee mug away from her, frowned, and avoided their eyes.

  Victoria noticed the uncomfortable expressions of the five gathered around her table. “I found out only recently about the assessors’ scam. Tillie was probably involved.”

  Casey leaned forward, apparently about to say something, but stopped herself.

  “You’ve asked for my thoughts,” Victoria said. “If I were you, I’d get an independent auditor to look into town property assessments in recent years. I’d check banks to see if the assessors have a savings account. Tillie, too. Investments. They undoubtedly invested their money in something.”

  Tim Eldredge turned a page in his notebook and continued to write.

  “It might be worthwhile to investigate Oliver Ashpine. He was appointed by the selectmen at the assessors’ request to fill out Tillie’s term after she disappeared. He may know something about her death. If I’m correct, Tillie’s job was worth a considerable amount of money.”

  “We looked into that,” said Smalley. “The job pays a bit over minimum wage. Hardly a motive.”

  “You might go through Oliver’s files. He keeps them in the locked bottom drawer of his file cabinet.”

  The sheriff looked down.

  “Mrs. Trumbull,” said Smalley, “you don’t seem to understand what we’re after. If what you say about the assessors is true, that’s one thing. But we’re trying to solve three murders, not investigate an alleged scam.”

  “It’s all connected,” said Victoria.

  Casey unhooked her equipment belt and lowered it to the floor with a thud. Her face was flushed. “Uncomfortable bunch of tools.”

  “Please continue, Mrs. Trumbull.” Smalley turned to the others. All but Trooper Eldredge, who was writing, had their arms folded tightly over their chests. “We invited ourselves to Mrs. Trumbull’s house to hear what she has to say, so I suggest we listen to her.”

  Victoria ran her thumbnail along the checked tablecloth, tracing the crack formed by the table leaf. “I’m convinced that Lucy Pease was killed by mistake.”

  “Lucy and Ellen don’t, or didn’t, look at all alike,” said Casey