Bloodroot

by Cynthia Riggs

  She went back to imagining murder instead. Wasn’t there some Greek or Roman philosopher who said something about thoughts of murder being a good way to pass a sleepless night?

  The night spun into cold, wet pre-dawn blackness as she planned ways she’d like to kill him. The birds had not yet tuned up their dawn chorus. Poison was good. Poison was impersonal. She wouldn’t have to touch him. Rain rattled the window.

  The sky grayed. Rainwater poured down the windowpanes.

  What poison could she use? And how would she obtain it? And how would she administer it? Much too complicated. She couldn’t see how poisoners were able to work out the logistics of murder.

  She heard her grandmother go into the bathroom next to her room and close the door.

  She got up, stripped off her sweatshirt, and put on her bra and one of her BUY LOCAL T-shirts, this one moss green. The T-shirt had been manufactured in India.

  Had she slept at all? Her murderous night thoughts had formed a hazy, half-remembered way to pass the long night.

  * * *

  Three days after the deaths of Mrs. Wilmington and Vivian, Roosevelt was still agonizing about Vivian’s death. Rain began after he went to bed. The downstairs clock struck three. An hour later, four.

  At the time he’d found her, he’d thought she’d committed suicide, thrown herself into the harbor. Then he thought it might have been an accident. The pale color of dawn crept up. Rain overflowed the gutters and splashed down the side of the house.

  The clock struck five.

  Two hours later, groggy from lack of sleep, he shrugged into his terry cloth bathrobe and joined PJ for breakfast. PJ hadn’t combed his hair and dark gold strands stuck up every which way.

  “I love the farm boy look,” said Roosevelt. “Fetching.”

  His partner smiled. “You didn’t sleep much last night, Rose. A lot of tossing and turning.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you awake.” Roosevelt looked down at the backs of his dark hands. His grandmother used to say his skin was good. High class. He turned his hands over and looked at his pale palms, his long, sensitive fingers. His fingers were trembling. “I just can’t get her off my mind.” He rubbed his eyes, scratchy from lack of sleep. “I keep seeing that flowered skirt of hers ballooning up out of the water.”

  PJ left the table and brought the coffeepot back. He filled Roosevelt’s mug. “Are you going in to work today?”

  “Not much reason to. All this week’s appointments have been canceled. Even if they weren’t, I’m not as sharp as I should be if I’m going to work on someone’s teeth. Look at my hands.”

  “A bit shaky, yes.” PJ returned the coffeepot to the stove and went to the window. “Wind’s shifted to southwest. It’ll clear up this morning.” He turned back to Roosevelt. “After what you went through, Rose, I’m surprised you’re as steady as you are.” He returned to his seat. “You’d better get some nourishment. Stewed apples and sausages.”

  Roosevelt helped himself. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “You know Victoria Trumbull, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Roosevelt spoke with his mouth full. “She’s a patient at the dental clinic. She was there the morning Mrs. Wilmington died, about to have a wisdom tooth extracted.”

  “At her age?”

  “Age doesn’t apply to Mrs. Trumbull,” said Roosevelt. “It’s not unheard of for someone of advanced years to grow a new tooth.” He laid his fork on his plate. “What about her?”

  “She helped me understand a badly screwed-up patient.”

  Roosevelt smiled for the first time that morning. “I thought they all were.” He passed his empty plate to PJ, who served out the last of the apples.

  “True, but Mrs. Trumbull gave me information about this patient’s family that I couldn’t get from him. She knows everyone on the Island and their grandparents. You should talk to her.”

  “What for?”

  “There’s something fishy about your receptionist ending up in the harbor.”

  “What can Mrs. Trumbull do?”

  “She has insight. Talking to her will be therapeutic.”

  Roosevelt nodded at him. “I live with a therapist.”

  PJ shook his head. “I can’t help you with this. Talk to Mrs. Trumbull.”

  “Okay. I’ll call her.” Roosevelt stood. “First, I’ve got to call the clinic to let them know I won’t be in today.”

  A few minutes later he returned. “She’ll see me after lunch.”

  CHAPTER 18

  That morning the Wilmington heirs sat on the porch finishing their last cups of coffee. All four were barefoot, the two sisters in cutoff jeans, as usual, Scott in his neatly pressed chinos, and Wesley in the worn jeans that looked as though they could use laundering. Sunlight broke through rain clouds and sparkled on the wet grass and on the ocean far below.

  A helicopter whirred overhead. The sound of its rotors faded away to the southwest, toward Squibnocket.

  “How was the dentist yesterday, Heathe?” asked Susan.

  “They took me right away. A handsome young dentist, Dr. McCloud”—Heather rolled her lovely eyes—“fixed the filling.”

  “Single?” asked Wesley.

  “I didn’t notice a wedding ring,” said Heather.

  Scott was stroking his beard, tugging it gently. “Doctors and dentists don’t wear jewelry while they work.”

  “Lucky you got that ride home, Heathe, after Scott wimped out on you,” said Wesley.

  Scott looked over his shoulder. “I was there. I met the five o’clock boat. No Heather.” He returned to the view. “You could have called.”

  “There was no point in trying. You know there’s lousy cell reception here.”

  “I wasn’t here in Chilmark,” snapped Scott, turning to look at his sister. “I was in Oak Bluffs. How did you think I managed to call the clinic to let you know the autopsy results, stupid, carrier pigeon?”

  Heather looked down at her feet. The black polish on her toenails was chipped.

  “Who was he, the guy who drove you home?” asked Susan. “He didn’t stick around long enough for an introduction.”

  “His name is Woody. I sat at his table in the lunchroom on the ferry. We got to talking, and he offered me a ride.”

  “You would hit on the lone, unattached male on the ferry,” said Wesley.

  “All the tables were taken,” said Heather.

  “Is he single?” asked Wesley.

  “Divorced, smarty. And, yes, I gave him my cell number.”

  Another helicopter, flying low enough so they could read UNITED STATES OF AMERICA on its side as it passed over the house.

  When the sound of the rotors died away, Heather asked, “Is that the president?”

  “No,” said Scott. “He’s not supposed to be here until later this week. They’ll fly around, checking up on what’s going on down here from now until he leaves.”

  “Good Lord,” said Wesley, “They’d better warn the president that us kids are here.”

  “Ha, ha,” said Heather. “Very funny.”

  Wesley turned to Scott. “Saw you in Oak Bluffs with that hot dentist yesterday. The one who was working on Mildred.”

  “I’d have taken her to dinner if I’d known Heather got the earlier ferry.” Scott checked his watch. “Only a few hours until the will is read.”

  “This afternoon”—Wesley ran his hands along his thighs—“our financial troubles will be over.”

  “Not so fast, Wes. Probate takes time,” said Scott. “Even a simple will takes three to six months.”

  “Three months!” gasped Heather. “I can’t wait three months.”

  “Three to six, I said. With the arsenic factor, it’s going to take a lot longer. Did any of you think of that?”

  “What do you mean?” Susan reached up and combed out her short hair with her fingers.

  Heather sniffed and turned away.

  “What’s your problem, Heather?” asked Wesley.
r />   “I’ve got to get back to LA. To my job.” Heather looked at her watch.

  “Don’t they give you time off for a death in the family?” asked Susan.

  “Sue, you have no concept of the real world. This”—Heather gestured around—“is not the real world.”

  “We’ve got to hold on to the property,” said Susan.

  “There’s no way we can keep it.” Wesley indicated the worn painted floor, the splintery wooden steps leading up to the porch, the weathered trim. “We need the money. Not one of us can afford the upkeep let alone the taxes on this mausoleum.”

  “Wes is right,” said Heather. “We’ve got to sell.”

  “This would make a great inn,” said Susan. “I mean, look at the view. It won’t take much to turn it into a paying property.”

  “It would take a lot more money than I’ve got. I vote to sell.” Wesley slapped his hand on the arm of his chair.

  “We can’t sell until the will is probated,” said Scott.

  “Can we get a loan based on our inheritance?” asked Heather.

  No one answered her.

  “What time are we due at the law office?” asked Wesley.

  “Two p.m. The lawyer’s got a court appearance this morning,” said Scott. “Sue, you know how to get to his place?”

  “It’s her place,” said Susan. “Darya Blout. Her office is in Edgartown. We need at least forty-five minutes to get there.”

  “What’s she like?” asked Wesley.

  Heather sneered at him. “Maybe she’s single, Wes. Lawyers have money.”

  “I’ve never met her. She’s supposed to be very competent.” Susan set her feet flat on the porch floor and stopped the swing.

  “Hey!” said Heather. “I want to keep swinging.”

  “It’s making me queasy.” Susan held her feet in place. “Darya took over her grandfather’s practice after he died.”

  “You’re on a first-name basis?” asked Scott.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Susan sat forward and the swing tilted. “Everyone on this Island is on a first-name basis. You know how things are here.”

  “Yes, we certainly do,” said Scott.

  “Enough serious discussion for one day,” said Wesley. “Why don’t we all go for a swim before lunch?”

  “Kinda chilly, isn’t it?” Heather hugged herself.

  “Bracing,” said Wesley.

  “It’s a lot warmer in LA.”

  “We’re not in LA now.”

  “I wish,” said Heather.

  After general agreement, they went back into the house and changed into bathing suits, gathered up towels, and headed down the pasture toward the beach.

  Susan flung a towel over her shoulders. “It’s turned into a perfect day.”

  “Not like California,” said Heather. “I don’t see how you can stand the winters here, Sue. I was soooo glad to get away from this place.”

  “Don’t you miss spring and fall?” They were trailing behind their brothers, who’d raced down the hill. Sheep had cropped the grass short on the hillside.

  “Not really,” said Heather.

  Susan stopped abruptly and looked down. “Look, Heather. Field mushrooms. Let’s pick some for lunch on the way back.”

  “Just like Grandmother,” said Heather. “Always foraging.”

  “Remember the gooseberry jam she made?” Susan started down the hill again. “We still have a bunch of jars in the pantry.”

  “Probably full of botulism by now.”

  “Remember finding watercress in the brook?”

  “Leeches! Ugh!” said Heather.

  Susan laughed. “Always the optimist.”

  Heather laughed, too.

  They caught up with their brothers, out of breath, and passed them. At the foot of the hill they flopped down on the grass and waited.

  A soft breeze brought the soothing sound of sheep bleating. Heather rolled over onto her stomach and pulled up a grass stem. She stuck it in her mouth and chewed on it.

  “We had some good times,” said Susan. “I miss you guys.”

  Heather turned onto her back, sat up, and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “It’s all in the past, Sue. Grandmother failed at being a mother. She didn’t even try. I’m glad we’re rid of her.”

  Susan stared down at her feet. She’d kicked off her sandals. “She looked forward to a peaceful retirement. Then, wham! She gets stuck with four resentful teenagers.”

  Heather got up and adjusted her bathing suit. “She didn’t have to take it out on us.”

  “Here they come.” Susan called out, “First one in!”

  “June. Brrr!” said Heather.

  Lines of combers curled offshore forming sleek tunnels that arched and fell into a mass of foam. Stones tumbled in the backwash, granite, gneiss, and schist grinding together to create a beach of glittering miniature gems.

  The four forgot their differences as they dived into the icy smooth curve of breakers, emerged on the back side of the wave shouting at the shock of cold water, shaking wet hair out of their eyes, laughing, and splashing each other like the children they once were. Finally, exhausted, they dropped onto the warm sand and lay there until the breeze brought them the sound of the distant noon siren in the faraway fire station.

  “Lunchtime, guys!” said Heather, sitting up. “Sue found mushrooms in the pasture. How about it?”

  “Wild mushrooms?” Scott frowned. “No thanks.”

  “You can’t go wrong with field mushrooms,” said Susan.

  “Is that right,” said Scott. “People end up in the hospital all the time after eating perfectly safe mushrooms.”

  “You don’t have to eat any, if you feel that way,” said Heather. “Let me borrow your hat.”

  “What for?”

  “To put them in, silly!” answered Heather.

  Scott yanked off his baseball cap and tossed it to her.

  “Thanks, bro.”

  Patches of mushrooms dotted the pasture where sheep dung had nurtured them. Despite his misgivings, Scott was soon searching for the pearl-colored clumps, few enough to make a kind of treasure hunt, but after a half hour, enough to fill Scott’s hat and then the kerchief Susan had knotted into a carrying bag.

  Back at the house they worked together preparing lunch—a salad with raw mushrooms, hamburgers with mushroom gravy. They ate on the porch. The breeze bent the long grass that grew near the house into golden waves. At the lower end of the pasture, muted by distance, pounding surf was a steady low rumble.

  “A perfect morning.” Wesley forked up a chunk of rare hamburger and swept mushroom gravy onto it with a crust of bread. “Glad you recognized these were edible, Sue.”

  “I have to admit, that was excellent,” said Scott, patting his mouth with his paper napkin. “Good job, everyone.”

  “I’m ready for my nap, now,” said Heather, standing up and stretching. “Nothing more relaxing than a swim and a good lunch afterward. Nighty night, folks.”

  “Hey, sis, you’re not excused from cleanup,” said Wesley. “Don’t forget the lawyer’s appointment at two.”

  Heather yawned. “I’m still suffering from jet lag.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Scott. “You wash, Heather. Wesley and I’ll dry. Sue knows where everything goes. She’ll put away.”

  Wesley snapped a dishtowel at her buttocks. “Nice try.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Victoria was ready for Roosevelt’s visit before noon. All was well and her jaw was healing nicely. She took her shoes off and set them by the door. Even though the right shoe had a hole cut into it to relieve her sore toe, it hurt today. She put the teakettle on to heat as she awaited Roosevelt’s arrival. Her only contact with him had been to exchange civilities at the clinic.

  Before the tea water had come to a boil, Roosevelt showed up, trim in his navy blazer and open-collared white shirt.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Mrs. Trumbull,” He glanced down at Victoria’s shoes by the door, stooped do
wn, and removed his own.

  Victoria smiled. She poured the now boiling water over tea leaves in the blue and white teapot and Roosevelt carried it into the cookroom. She brought a plate of gingersnaps.

  “You mentioned that you’re uneasy about Vivian’s death,” said Victoria, after they were seated and the tea poured.

  “I wish I’d taken her straight home.”

  Victoria shook her head. “If she was determined to kill herself, she’d have found another time and place.”

  “PJ, my partner, thinks she may not have killed herself.”

  “Oh?” Victoria held her mug up under her nose and breathed in the fragrant steam.

  “Too many coincidences. Two deaths on the same day, two people working in the same office, both deaths under less than normal circumstances.”

  “What do you think?” Victoria sipped her tea.

  Roosevelt took a gingersnap and broke it in half. “I couldn’t sleep last night. Kept recalling the events of that day. Mrs. Wilmington’s seizure. Dr. Mann’s meeting. After Vivian answered the phone, she came back, upset.”

  “The call was the announcement of Mrs. Wilmington’s death?”

  “Not an announcement.” Roosevelt put one of the cookie pieces in his mouth. “The call was from a friend of Vivian’s who works at the hospital.” He chewed. “She’d broken an important privacy rule by telling Vivian about Mrs. Wilmington’s death.”

  “I’m sure that was irresistible to the friend,” said Victoria. “Calling Vivian with inside information.”

  “I thought at first that Vivian probably had committed suicide. She’d heard the news first and passed it on to the rest of us. She was the messenger, you know. Sensitive.”

  Victoria took another sip of her tea.

  “But, lying awake last night, I thought some more. It’s not easy working for the clinic.” Roosevelt broke the other half of his gingersnap into smaller pieces. “A patient’s death would have upset her, as it did all of us. But not enough to kill oneself.”

  “Could she have fallen into the harbor accidentally?”

  “I thought of that, too,” he said. “She might have stepped out of the car. It was windy. Water was splashing up on the bulkhead making it slippery. She was wearing a voluminous skirt that could have acted like a sail.” He shook his head. “But the wind was blowing onshore from the harbor.”