Bloodroot

by Cynthia Riggs

  “Where does that leave you?” asked Victoria.

  He lifted his mug and set it down again without drinking. “When Vivian came back into the office she seemed to be holding something back. What if the caller told Vivian something that might have identified Mrs. Wilmington’s killer?”

  “You were taking her home, I understand,” said Victoria. “How long were you in the liquor store?”

  “About a half hour.”

  “No one heard her cry out?”

  “It was windy. Noisy from waves and halyards slapping masts. I don’t think anyone even close by would have heard a cry.” He picked up his mug again. “There were a lot of cars in the parking lot, but no people around. Everyone was in the store. Someone had won fifty bucks on a scratch card and people were making a big fuss over it. There was no one outside to see her.”

  “A half hour is enough time for someone to give her an unseen push,” said Victoria.

  “But no one could have counted on my being in the store that long. They’d be taking a big risk of being caught.”

  “Were you aware of anyone following you?” asked Victoria.

  “No, because I was concerned about Vivian.”

  “The hospital’s medical team was trying to save Mrs. Wilmington’s life. Might she have called out something? Perhaps some word that meant nothing to anyone but Vivian.”

  Roosevelt shrugged. “Mrs. Wilmington calls out a word, someone passes that word to Vivian’s friend, who tells Vivian, who recognizes the word as something sinister?”

  “Not plausible, is it,” said Victoria. “More tea?” She held up the teapot.

  “Please.”

  Victoria poured. “Would Mrs. Wilmington have known who poisoned her? Arsenic doesn’t have much taste or odor. It probably was dissolved in something she drank.”

  “I assume it must have been administered at the clinic,” said Roosevelt. “I understand arsenic is fast acting.”

  “Not necessarily.” Victoria glanced out the window. She could see a hawk in the distance, fleeing from several crows that were after it. She turned back to Roosevelt. “Depending on the dose it might have taken anywhere from a half hour to four or five hours before she died.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” said Roosevelt. “Somehow that phone call seems key.”

  Victoria said, “If the autopsy shows that Vivian was struck, knocking her into the harbor, we’ll have an answer of sorts.”

  “Then we’ll have the question of who did it and why,” said Roosevelt. “And how her death is connected to Mrs. Wilmington’s, that is, if it is connected.”

  “After Vivian informed the clinic’s staff of Mrs. Wilmington’s death, how long was it before the meeting adjourned?”

  “Not long. I offered to take Vivian home and Arthur offered a ride to Jane Douglas.”

  “Which one is Jane Douglas?” asked Victoria.

  “She’s Dr. McBride’s assistant. She was there when Mrs. Wilmington had the attack. In her mid-twenties with, I was going to say prematurely gray hair, but it’s not gray, it’s an extraordinary pure silver. She’s quite stunning.”

  “What movie stars in the nineteen-thirties called ‘platinum blonde.’ And Arthur? Which one is he?”

  “Quiet guy, works with Dr. Minnowfish. Medium height, husky build, dark hair.”

  “Yes, I recall him.” Victoria moved her chair back. “I have to agree with PJ. Vivian had no reason to commit suicide, and it seems unlikely that she accidentally slipped and fell into the harbor. Who would have the opportunity to shove her? Who would want her dead?”

  “She was an inoffensive woman. I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill her.”

  They were silent for several minutes.

  Finally, Victoria said, “The situation is so murky, I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.”

  Roosevelt stood. “You have, Mrs. Trumbull. You’ve put several things into perspective for me. PJ was right.”

  * * *

  After Roosevelt left, Victoria put her shoes back on and headed to the police station.

  Casey glanced up from her paperwork. “Smalley faxed me the results of the postmortem on Vivian.” She handed a sheet of paper to Victoria, who studied it.

  “A bruise on the back of her head,” said Victoria, looking up. “So it was murder. Someone hit her, knocking her into the harbor.” She passed the paper back to Casey.

  “Don’t even think about investigating that one, too,” said Casey. She sighed. “I know you too well, Victoria. You’re not going to listen to me, no matter what I tell you.”

  “I listen,” said Victoria.

  “But you do what you want anyway.” Casey shook her head. “Have you heard from Lockwood?” She opened a desk drawer and filed the paper.

  “Nothing.” Victoria seated herself in her usual chair in front of Casey’s desk, leaned down, and untied her right shoe.

  “You ought to see the doctor about that toe,” said Casey. “They can fix stuff like that nowadays.”

  Victoria removed her shoe. “They’d probably amputate.”

  Casey picked up her beach-stone paperweight and tossed it from hand to hand. “Junior Norton checked with the Steamship Authority. Lockwood had a reservation on the three forty-five ferry. He was on the boat, as he said.”

  “Did he book a return reservation?” asked Victoria.

  “No.” Casey smoothed the stone. “He’s playing with you.”

  “I’m concerned about Elizabeth, not myself,” said Victoria.

  “I’m concerned about both of you.” Casey dropped the stone down on her papers. “No telling what he’ll do next.”

  Victoria looked at her hands.

  The phone rang. Casey answered, spoke briefly, and hung up. “The medical examiner released Mrs. Wilmington’s body. Confirming what he told us earlier: arsenic.”

  On the Mill Pond the swans were ducking their heads underwater, dining on tender shoots below the surface.

  “From what I understand,” Victoria said, turning from the view of the pond, “arsenic is easily available. There’s undoubtedly plenty of it around still. I believe you can order it from chemical supply houses.”

  “Not easily,” said Casey.

  “Some forms of arsenic are tasteless and odorless,” said Victoria. “Someone could have given Mildred Wilmington a cup of tea with arsenic in it and she’d never have suspected. Depending on how concentrated the dose is, she wouldn’t suffer serious ill effects for hours. Remember the play Arsenic and Old Lace?”

  “Sure do,” said Casey. She looked at her watch. “The Wilmington grandchildren have an appointment at the lawyer’s office this afternoon. No matter how Mrs. W divvied things up, someone’s going to be unhappy.”

  “They’re civilized people,” said Victoria.

  “Civilization falls by the wayside when it involves inheritances. You’ll see, Victoria. Someone’s going to get hurt.” She looked over at Victoria and grinned. “I know what you’re thinking, Victoria. That since the state cops and we West Tisbury cops are flat out with the visit of the president, you’re going to take on the entire investigation of Mrs. Wilmington’s murder and solve it.”

  Victoria started to protest, but Casey held up a hand and continued.

  “I can’t count how many times I’ve told you—the state cops are responsible for solving murders, not us. Don’t meddle, Victoria. I mean it!”

  CHAPTER 20

  That afternoon, after the lunch dishes were put away, the four Wilmington grandchildren headed for Wesley’s convertible. Heather pushed the front seat aside to climb into the backseat and stopped.

  “It’s soaking wet back here, Wes,” said Heather. “Did you wait until the rain stopped before you put the top back up?”

  “A wet behind isn’t going to kill you,” said Wesley.

  “We’re going to the lawyer’s, dummy. It’s not like we’re going to the beach.”

  “Okay, okay.” Wesley headed to the house, returned with
towels, and laid them on the wet seats. Heather and Susan climbed in, Scott took the front passenger seat, and Wesley drove.

  He made a wide turn out of the pasture onto the rutted drive that led to the main road.

  Scott opened the window partway. He said over his shoulder, “This too much air for you, Sue?”

  “It’s fine,” she replied. She leaned back, folded her arms, and closed her eyes.

  After the hills and stonewalls of Chilmark, they came to the gentler fields of West Tisbury. The night’s rain had brought out shades of early-summer green. They passed the church, the senior center, Alley’s Store. On the porch of Alley’s, two men leaned against various parts of the building and a woman was seated.

  Heather broke the silence. “Don’t those guys ever work? They’re always there, gossiping.”

  Wesley said over his shoulder, “They call it ‘commenting on the goings on about town.’”

  “One time I saw one of them move.”

  “Joe,” said Wesley. “He spits tobacco juice every so often.”

  “Ugh!” said Heather.

  They passed the old mill and the pond where two swans sailed on the mirror surface. They passed the tiny police station.

  Heather twisted around to look behind. “Mrs. Trumbull just came out of the police station. She was at the dentist’s when Grandmother died.”

  “Yeah, Heather. We know,” said Scott.

  They were quiet on the stretch of road between West Tisbury and Edgartown. The road dipped into frost bottoms, small valleys created by glacial meltwaters twenty thousand years earlier.

  On the outskirts of Edgartown, they sighted the tall windmill at Morning Glory Farm.

  Heather leaned over the front seat and tapped Wesley’s shoulder. “Let’s stop and get some fresh vegetables for supper.”

  “On the way back,” Wesley said.

  Scott turned to him. “I’m thinking we should go out for a celebratory dinner tonight. Someplace très upscale.”

  Heather glanced at Susan, who’d been silent the whole time. “Oh come off it, Sue. Stop being such a grouch.”

  Susan said, “We’re not going on a picnic, you guys.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Scott.

  They drove without further talk down Main Street, past the Whaling Church on the left. A block before Main Street ended at the harbor they turned onto South Water Street.

  “How are we doing for time?” Wesley asked.

  Scott checked his watch. “Fine. It’s quarter of. From what Sue says we’re practically there.”

  * * *

  The lawyer’s office was in one of the restored captains’ houses that lined North and South Water Street. The Wilmington grandchildren parked, crossed the road, and went up the steps onto a small open porch with built-in benches on either side.

  A sign below a whale-shaped door knocker read KNOCK AND ENTER. They went in.

  Inside and to the left, what was once a formal parlor had been turned into a waiting room. On the right, a downstairs bedroom was now a modern office. Its concession to the house’s antiquity was the office furniture—desks, tables, chairs, and bookcases, all polished wood. State-of-the-art computers and office machines made a jarring note.

  A slender woman with dark hair came out of a door beyond the office and greeted them. “Mildred Wilmington’s grandchildren, I assume?”

  They introduced themselves and the woman said she was Darya Blout, their grandmother’s attorney.

  Wesley looked her up and down. “Kind of young to be doing this, aren’t you?”

  Darya Blout ignored him.

  Wesley flushed.

  She offered her condolences on their grandmother’s death. “An unfortunate way to go.”

  They stood solemnly, heads slightly bowed.

  “Follow me, please.” Darya led the way past the office to a small study where several chairs were arranged in a semicircle in front of a mahogany desk. She seated herself behind the desk. “Sit down, please. Your grandmother’s will is quite simple and straightforward, but I’m sure you’ll have questions.”

  Scott took the chair directly in front of her and the others seated themselves on either side of him. He indicated two extra chairs. “Will someone else be joining us?”

  Darya nodded. “My assistant will sit in and take notes and a stenographer will be making a word-for-word transcription of the meeting.”

  “Were you the lawyer who drew up our grandmother’s will?” asked Wesley.

  “No. My grandfather was her attorney for almost a half century. It was he who drew up the present will five years ago, superseding a previous will he’d drawn up ten years before that.”

  Heather looked perplexed. “Oh? What was that all about?”

  Darya studied Heather before she answered. “I’m afraid I really can’t tell you.”

  Scott said, “Fifteen years ago, Heather, is when our parents were killed and Mildred took us all in. Five years ago is long after we three moved out.”

  “I have no idea what transpired between your grandmother and my grandfather at either time,” the lawyer said. “Even if I knew, I would not be at liberty to divulge any dealings between an attorney and his client.”

  Wesley gave a nervous chuckle. “There you have it, kids.”

  Scott shifted in his chair, tugged at the knees of his jeans as though to preserve a crease that wasn’t there, and crossed his legs. “What’s holding us up?” He stroked his beard.

  Darya didn’t answer. She had a long elegant face with prominent cheekbones and dark eyes. Her hair was pulled away from her face with combs, exposing neat ears with small pearl earrings. She was wearing a banker’s gray pantsuit, the jacket buttoned halfway exposing a white silk T-shirt.

  Scott uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “What’s holding things up?” he said again.

  Darya said, “My assistant is briefing the stenographer and getting the equipment ready.”

  “Equipment?” said Heather. “What for?”

  “I believe you’ll want a record of what is said here today.”

  “What’s going on?” said Wesley, leaning forward. “This doesn’t sound like the reading of a simple will to me.”

  Darya smiled. “It really is quite a simple will. Well thought out, no ambiguities. Your grandmother had all her mental faculties as did my grandfather.” She looked up as a side door opened. “Here’s my assistant now. Richard, these are Mrs. Wilmington’s four grandchildren,” and she introduced each of them.

  Richard, a stout, red-faced man with thin white hair, nodded politely and sat some distance from the four, notebook in his lap.

  “And this is Martha, our stenographer.” Darya turned back to the four as Martha set up her recording stand. “We’ll provide you with a transcript of our meeting as soon as it’s available.”

  While the stenographer was setting up, Darya opened a leather folder and removed a document, perched a pair of reading glasses on her nose, and thumbed through the several pages.

  She peered over the top of her glasses. “Martha?”

  Martha nodded, adjusted her seat, and poised her hands over the stenotype machine.

  Darya moved her glasses into place and glanced at the papers in front of her. She looked up briefly and stated the date and the people present. Then she began. “Mildred Wilmington, your grandmother, mentions each one of the four of you in her will. She expresses her devotion to you, wishes each of you a long, happy, and prosperous life.” Darya glanced up, then back down at the papers. “To each one of you she bequeaths the sum of five thousand dollars.”

  Wesley half rose from his chair. “Five thousand dollars? That’s all? That’s all she left us? That’s nothing!”

  “There must be some mistake,” said Scott, rubbing his beard with the palm of his hand. “Mildred was a wealthy woman.”

  Darya peered over her glasses. “Let me read what your grandmother says in her own words: ‘Having provided for the material welfare of my four grandchildren for fifteen
years, and having paid for food, clothing, entertainment, and their college education, I believe I have no further financial obligation to them. A gift of five thousand dollars to each is a token of my affection for them and my wish for each to have a long, happy, and prosperous life.’” Darya moved the document to one side, removed her glasses, and looked up.

  “Token? Token?” sputtered Heather.

  “Affection.” Scott spit out the word. “That cold-blooded bitch didn’t have an ounce of affection for anything or anyone.”

  The stenographer’s hands typed busily.

  Darya put her glasses back on. “Shall I continue?”

  Silence. The stenographer paused, hands suspended.

  Richard turned a page in his notebook.

  “Very well, I’ll continue.” Darya cleared her throat. “As you supposed, your grandmother was a wealthy woman. The next item is a major bequest.”

  Heather glanced at Susan. Susan looked down at her hands folded in her lap. All four heirs were silent.

  Darya looked down at the document. “I bequeath to Dr. Horace Mann—”

  “Mann?” Scott interrupted, sitting forward. “Island Dental Clinic? Her dentist? Why, for God’s sake?”

  “How much does she give him?” asked Heather.

  Darya removed her glasses.

  “All right, we’ll shut up,” said Wesley.

  Darya put her glasses back on. “In her words, ‘To Horace Mann, who brought painless dentistry to the Island—’”

  Wesley guffawed. “Hardly painless in her case, I’d say.”

  Darya frowned and continued, “‘I bequeath the unrestricted sum of three million dollars.’”

  “Three million?” Heather gasped. “Three? Million?”

  Wesley added, “To her dentist?”

  Scott shook his head. “That’s ironic.”

  “That’s outrageous!” said Heather. “Three million to some dentist? And only five thousand to each of us, her own children?”

  “Grandchildren,” corrected Scott.

  “Who gets the money if Mann dies?” asked Heather.