Bloodroot

by Cynthia Riggs

  “Aren’t you going the wrong way?” asked Jane.

  “I know you haven’t lived here year-round. Thought I’d show you West Tiz.” He paused, eyes on the road.

  “I’ve spent all my summers since childhood on the Vineyard, Arthur. You really don’t need to show me around.”

  Arthur kept his eyes on the road. “You must feel terrible. Mrs. Wilmington being your patient and all.”

  “It wasn’t a pretty sight.” Jane stared out the window.

  “Her granddaughter, Susan, was there at the clinic.”

  Jane nodded.

  “I heard the other three were there, too, the two grandsons and granddaughter. I didn’t see them, myself.”

  “I wouldn’t know them,” said Jane.

  “’Course you wouldn’t. They were all patients before they left home. Long before you arrived on the scene.” He opened the window. “Well, the two guys kept in touch with a couple of us after they left. They’re here, now, visiting Granny.”

  “Her death will be a terrible blow to them.” Jane leaned her head back against the seat.

  “I doubt it,” said Arthur.

  A small plane zoomed over their car and set down smoothly at the end of the runway to their right.

  “I wonder why they mow such wide swaths on the sides of Barnes Road here,” said Jane, changing the subject away from Mrs. Wilmington. “It’s not in keeping with the Island.”

  “Emergency landing strip,” Arthur answered.

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Arthur nodded. “About Mrs. W. Tough on all of us, but you were there I mean. And she was your patient. No wonder you passed out.”

  “I’m embarrassed about that.” Jane examined the pale pink polish on her manicured fingernails.

  “No need to be. Anybody going through what you went through would’ve acted worse,” said Arthur.

  “I feel sorry for her granddaughter.” She looked over at Arthur. “But I really don’t want to talk about Mrs. Wilmington.”

  “Yeah, I understand. She wasn’t the nicest person in the world.” He braked at the stop sign where Barnes Road ended and turned right onto the Edgartown Road. “She’s been coming to the clinic a long time.”

  Jane turned to face him. “We shouldn’t discuss patients.”

  Arthur barked out a laugh. “She ain’t no patient no more.”

  Jane stared at him. “That’s not at all funny.”

  “Sorry.” Arthur flushed. “Mrs. W was no fan of Dr. McBride’s, you know. I guess it was pretty clear to everybody that McBride was playing up to Mann.” He glanced quickly at her. She had her eyes closed. “We all knew Mrs. W had a thing for Mann, too. Jealous, I guess.”

  “Please, Arthur. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to get home.” Jane folded her arms over her chest.

  “Sure. No problem.” Arthur pressed the accelerator and the pickup sped up.

  He was quiet for a few minutes. Then he said, “She’s been seeing Mrs. W’s grandson, too.” He took a hand off the steering wheel and rubbed his thumb and third finger together. “McBride can smell money a mile off. Mrs. W was worth a bundle, you know. McBride is scouting around for a rich husband.”

  Jane turned her head away from him.

  “Sorry. I know you want to get home quick.”

  They passed the airport and reached the outskirts of West Tisbury before she spoke again. On their left was a weathered gray shingled house. “I’ve always wondered who lives in that house,” she said twisting to look back. “It must be one of the oldest on the Vineyard.”

  “That’s Mrs. Trumbull’s place. She was there today.”

  Jane nodded.

  “House is older than she is.” He turned to her again. “I’ll stop at Alley’s and buy you a cup of coffee. Perk you up.”

  “No thanks.” Jane looked at her watch.

  “No problem.” Arthur slowed up as they came to a house with a small building leaning against it, about to collapse. “That used to be an ice cream parlor and the house used to be Gifford’s General Store.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Jane.

  “Grandkids own it now. They had a yard sale couple years ago. I bought a bunch of old stuff.”

  “Really? What sort of things?”

  “Bottles. I collect old bottles. Sulphur matches. You could still light them. Old man Gifford never threw anything out. Before my time. I never met him.” He sped up again. “There’s the police station on the right. Garden Club on the left. Used to be a mill. The Mill Pond on the right.”

  “Yes, yes, I know all this,” said Jane.

  He turned right after the pond and they passed the cemetery and Whiting’s fields and the new Ag Hall and the arboretum.

  Jane looked at her watch.

  When they reached Vineyard Haven he said, “I’d sure like to treat you to a sandwich and a beer at the Black Dog. It’s lunchtime and we haven’t eaten.”

  “I’m not hungry, Arthur. Please, I want to get home.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

  He turned onto Main Street. They passed CB Stark Jewelers and Bunch of Grapes bookstore.

  “I’m beyond Owen Park on the right toward the water.”

  “High rent district,” said Arthur.

  “Yes, it is.” She stared out the window. “It’s lucky I make a high salary at the clinic.”

  “Yeah,” said Arthur. “Minimum wage. How’d you end up here?”

  “An inheritance.”

  “Yeah?” asked Arthur.

  She didn’t answer.

  They reached the entrance to a narrow lane. The harbor spread out below them. “You can drop me off here,” she said. “I need the walk.”

  Arthur grinned. “Great place to live, you and your baby girl. Nice view.”

  She stared at him before she opened the door. “Thanks for the ride.” She got out and shut the door firmly behind her.

  * * *

  She walked down the lane, shrugging her shoulders as if to rid herself of an unwanted load, which was exactly how she felt. Arthur had a crush on her and she’d avoided him. How had he known about her baby? She was obsessive about her daughter’s privacy.

  She took a deep breath of the sea air, turned left onto a brick path between boxwood hedges, and started down a set of steps that led to her house.

  An elderly Jamaican woman with closely cropped gray hair, barefoot and wearing a brightly colored flowered muumuu that fell almost to her ankles greeted her at the wide glass door. “Missy. What’re you doing home at this hour?”

  “It’s a long story, Abigail,” said Jane. “Has Davina been a good girl?”

  “She’s playing in her sandbox. Only family I know has a sandbox on the beach.” Abigail was taller than Jane, ageless and reed thin. Her skin was the color of coffee with cream, and she’d been Jane’s nanny when Jane was a child.

  Jane went to the large window overlooking the beach. The little girl was seated in an area bounded by old railroad ties, pouring sand from a plastic measuring cup into a red plastic bucket, and singing to herself. From where Jane stood, her daughter’s head was framed by a red-gold halo of baby-fine hair.

  “Sure is a pretty child,” said Abigail.

  Jane smiled. “One of my earliest memories was playing in a sandbox Grandfather made for me in that same spot. I remember picking up shells and taking them to you for you to admire. It was my very own special place.”

  “Nothing like boundaries for a little one,” said Abigail. “You look worn out, Missy. Have you had lunch?”

  “I can’t eat anything.” Jane turned away from the window.

  “Cup of tea, then.”

  “That’s just what I want. Thank you.” Jane kicked off her sandals and seated herself on the couch where she could watch her daughter. “Fix yourself a cup, too, and I’ll tell you all about the most awful morning of my life, if you’re interested.”

  * * *

  After Arthur Morgan dropped Jane Douglas off, he ba
cktracked to Oak Bluffs. He was thinking about the phone call the receptionist took. Someone at the hospital was going to be in big trouble, letting out information on that woman’s death. There was something else, though, about that call that upset Vivian. What was it?

  He checked his watch. Past lunchtime. He’d head back to Oak Bluffs, get a bite to eat at the Tidal Rip. He drove down the hill overlooking the Oak Bluffs harbor and when he saw the liquor store, decided to stop. Get himself a six-pack of Bud. As he drove into the crowded parking lot he recognized the two Wilmington grandsons. They were just entering the building. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see them after this morning, so he drove slowly through the parking lot and then spotted the receptionist’s car. Seems like everyone’s here, he thought. Roosevelt and the receptionist were probably in the store. He’d get the beer some other time.

  * * *

  The forensic van from off Island arrived at the dental clinic and three investigators came into the reception area—a black guy with a shaved head, who seemed to be in charge; a young white guy with thick glasses; and a young woman with spiky green hair. They slipped into clean white scrub suits before entering the clinic itself.

  “Do I need to stay around for this?” asked Dr. Mann.

  “Yes,” said Smalley. “Get yourself a cup of coffee and wait in your car. The forensic team is likely to have some questions.”

  The team pulled covers over their shoes, bouffant caps over their hair.

  “I hate to tell you, Doc,” said Smalley, “but these assholes cleaned the place after the victim was carried out.”

  The principal investigator, Dr. Joel Killdeer, was chewing gum. “Don’t worry, John,” he said. “We’ll find something. They never do a real thorough job.”

  Smalley looked dubious. “Good luck.” He went out into the parking lot and joined Tim in the police car. Tim produced a thermos of coffee and poured it into two cardboard cups.

  “Where’s Mann?” Tim asked. “Car’s gone.”

  “Getting coffee, I imagine,” replied Smalley, blowing on his own coffee before taking a cautious sip.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dr. Horace Mann climbed into his car, offended, angry, and humiliated at his shoddy treatment at the hands of Sergeant John Smalley. Smalley had known him since high school and certainly didn’t need to treat him as though he’d committed a crime by cleaning his clinic. Of course he was going to clean the place.

  He’d changed back into his tan slacks and brown and green madras shirt.

  Damned if he was going to wait around, though, sitting in his car drinking coffee while the forensic team inspected his clinic. Of course they wouldn’t find any evidence. What evidence did they expect to find?

  He had to check on Vivian. Something about that phone call had upset her. Something more than the news of Mrs. Wilmington’s death. What had the friend said to her above and beyond the death? After the staff meeting he’d contacted the hospital to report the call. Vivian’s friend had disregarded strict privacy laws.

  He headed toward Oak Bluffs, his window open, his radio tuned to some talk show. Damn Smalley. Proper hygiene demanded the clinic be clean. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his fingers were numb.

  The straight road soothed him. The state forest on his right had bright new undergrowth of huckleberry. On his left, a small plane roared overhead for a landing at the airport. He came to the dip in the road where a rutted road led off to the state forester’s place. He thought about turning in there. A peaceful place canopied by tall pines. He could park in the shade and calm himself.

  But he had to find Vivian. What had that friend told her?

  By the time he reached the roundabout, he’d regained some of his equanimity.

  Jane. He should never have hired her as Aileen McBride’s assistant. That was a mistake. Aileen disliked Jane on the spot, but he’d insisted and Aileen had no choice. And Jane was good. Patients loved her.

  He smiled when he thought of Jane staggering toward him after Mrs. Wilmington’s attack this morning. She had called out his name.

  Aileen had watched with that odd expression. Then Ophelia came out with her comment about mascara stains. What was there about women and him? Women gravitated to him. And, he admitted, he liked their attention. Probably too much.

  He reached Oak Bluffs, wound his way through the one-way streets, and stopped for coffee-to-go at Nancy’s Snack Bar. Cream, no sugar. Back in his car he drove slowly past the harbor. Sailboats rocked on moorings. Power boats were lined up along the seawall. He came abreast of the liquor store parking lot. Lots of cars, but no people around. Vivian’s gray Suzuki was parked there. He stopped.

  What was her car doing here? He wanted to talk to her. Then he remembered that Roosevelt was driving her home. She was either in the store, or in the car, waiting.

  He looked at his watch.

  * * *

  Roosevelt had taken Vivian’s car keys with him while he went into the liquor store leaving Vivian, with whatever terrors she had, alone in her car. He didn’t want her driving in her condition.

  The store was crowded. He greeted several people he knew and two men who looked familiar. They’d been patients at the clinic years ago, but he couldn’t quite place who they were. He pushed his way through to the hard liquor shelves and picked up a bottle of Glenlivet, then made his way to the counter. He waited patiently in the line at the checkout. Someone had won fifty dollars on a lottery scratch card, and there were exclamations and congratulations. A small celebration was about to take place, but he didn’t want to wait for it. When he filled out his check, the clerk needed his driver’s license. He tugged his wallet out of his back pocket, thumbed through the pack of cards, and handed it to her.

  The entire transaction took much longer than he’d expected. He checked his watch. Half an hour. Hope she’s okay, he thought.

  When he came out, carrying the paper bag with his bottle of Scotch, he glanced through the windshield, but didn’t see her. Good, she was probably lying down. He opened the door. She wasn’t in the front seat. Or the back.

  “Damnation,” he muttered. He should never have left her alone. He glanced around. The road was clear all the way to the other side of the harbor and, looking back, all the way to the top of the hill. No sign of her.

  I suppose someone offered her a ride home and she accepted, he thought. Tired of waiting. Should have let me know.

  Then, with an uneasy feeling, he thought of the way she’d been acting. And he thought of the harbor near where he’d parked.

  She’d been more upset than he would have expected.

  What happened in the clinic today was enough to upset anyone. But she was a sensitive woman, might have been worse on her.

  He was wasting time. Still clutching his paper bag with its precious Scotch, he dashed across the asphalt toward the bulkhead that edged the harbor.

  A stiff breeze was blowing off the water. Sailboats rocked on their moorings. Steel halyards slapped rhythmically against aluminum masts like tolling bells. A gull flew overhead, mewling. The breeze lifted a piece of paper and flung it against his leg. He didn’t notice.

  He reached the bulkhead and leaned over, hoping he would see only floating detritus swept by the wind to this side of the harbor. His glasses had slipped. He pushed them back with his finger and held them in place while he looked down.

  The wind had shoved a swath of flotsam to this side. Bottles. Cups. Sticks. A dead gull. Seaweed. Plastic bags.

  And there she was, facedown in the debris, her flowered skirt ballooned above her like an inflated plastic bag.

  He stood up straight and looked around the parking area for someone, anyone. “Help!” he cried out. The paper bag slipped out of his hand, dropped to the pavement, and the bottle of Glenlivet shattered, spraying Scotch and shards of glass around him. “Man overboard! Help!”

  He turned, tugged off his shoes. Pulled off his tie. Shrugged out of his blazer and dropped it on the ground. “Help!” he shou
ted again and plunged into the murky harbor water.

  He surfaced, shook his head to clear his eyes, and reached out to her. He tried to turn her over, but she was too bulky. He tried to lift her face out of the water, but he couldn’t get a purchase on her head, her hair, her chin.

  “Hey, down there, buddy! Trouble?” A man leaned over. “Jesus Christ! I’ll get a line to you.”

  “Call 911!” someone shouted.

  “What happened?” Another voice, another man. Too blurry to make out. Roosevelt’s glasses, gone.

  * * *

  Back at the clinic, Killdeer opened the door and pulled off his bouffant cap. His shaved head was shiny with sweat. Then he pulled off his booties, one after the other, then shed his coverall. Underneath he wore pressed stone-washed jeans and a black T-shirt printed with a white osprey in flight.

  The woman with the green hair said, “We’re getting a ride to the boat, Doc. See you at the lab tomorrow.”

  “Right,” said Killdeer. “Thanks, both of you.”

  “Anytime,” the other tech said. “Pleasure.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Killdeer.

  “I’d like to hire those dental guys to clean my house,” said the woman. “Bye.”

  Killdeer called out to the state police. “Come on in.”

  Smalley joined him in the reception area.

  “Never seen anything like it.” Killdeer snapped his gum. “Place got cleaned up, and I mean cleaned up. No fingerprints. No trace of body fluids. No partly used containers.” He gathered up his shed protective clothing. “Nothing.”

  “Yeah,” said Smalley.

  “Take medical offices. We usually find something.” Killdeer shook his head and chewed steadily. “This is like an operating theater.” He tossed the shoe covers and cap onto one of the padded chairs and folded his coverall.

  “The clinic director claims the victim had a weak heart.”

  “You better hope it was natural death. Zero evidence here.”

  Smalley said, “I’m off duty as soon as we’re through here. Care for a beer?”

  “Sounds good.” Killdeer went to the door and looked around at the parking area. “Where’s Mann? Needs to sign some papers. He can open the clinic now, far as I’m concerned.”