Bloodroot

by Cynthia Riggs

  A goldfish splashed in the pond. A robin called its first chirrup of the predawn morning. And, as though the robin had lowered a conductor’s baton, the air was suddenly full of birdsong. Mourning doves, a cardinal, the robin. A blue jay. Flickers and Carolina wrens and chickadees. The dawn chorus was a joyful sound and Victoria’s heart lifted.

  To the east, trees gradually emerged out of the darkness, silhouetted by the faint pink glow of dawn.

  She stood up with her handful of sticks and headed back to the house. Everything would work out. Why had she felt doubtful?

  Scott would recover, Lockwood would come to his senses, the Wilmington grandchildren would make peace, Mrs. Wilmington’s murderer would be apprehended, and Dr. Mann would make good use of his three million dollars.

  She got busy in the kitchen. An oven omelet, bacon, and coffee for whenever the girls woke up. And she’d bake biscuits.

  Everything would work out.

  CHAPTER 31

  Victoria convinced herself that all would be well.

  She filled the coffee maker with fresh cold well water. Why would anyone who came to the Island drink bottled water when the Island had the best water in the world? And hers was the best of the best. She fitted a coffee filter into place, dropped in five full scoops of coffee, and turned on the machine. She opened a package of bacon, laid strips on the broiler pan, and set it in the oven to cook while she mixed the omelet. The omelet would take about a half hour to bake and could be eaten cold if the girls overslept. Eggs, milk, sour cream, a sprinkling of crushed hot peppers from last year’s garden, and chives from this year’s cut up and sprinkled on top. She poured the egg mixture into a baking dish over a half stick of melted butter. She’d start the biscuits when she heard one of the girls moving about.

  While the bacon cooked, scenting the house with its rich aroma, she went into the cookroom with her mug of coffee and a feeling of great optimism. She propped her lilac wood stick against the telephone table, fished an envelope out of the wastepaper basket, and started making notes.

  The police couldn’t help. Both the state police and the West Tisbury police were small units and the presidential visit was consuming all their time. She felt slighted by not being included in the security preparations for the visit.

  So she was on her own to solve the murders, which she intended to do before the police were available.

  That was Victoria’s first note on the back of the envelope: solve the murders.

  The second note to herself was to list each and every person even remotely connected with Mrs. Wilmington and Vivian. After that, she’d list possible motives. That way, she would eliminate those who most certainly were innocent.

  Morning sunlight poured in through the east door and turned the wide pine floorboards a mellow gold. Catbirds sang in the lilac tree. A goldfish splashed in the fish pond. A light breeze whispered through the window screen next to her chair. There were several envelopes in the wastepaper basket that had clean backs she could write on. The bacon sizzled. Her coffee was good and strong. The timer would go off when the omelet was done.

  She set to work. She would solve these murders, she would prove her worth as police deputy, and all would be right with her world.

  Her list of suspects started out with Dr. Horace Mann, the head of the clinic. She’d noted the three dentists: the doctors Ophelia Demetrios, Aileen McBride, and Sam Minnowfish, and their three assistants: Jane Douglas, Roosevelt Mark, and Arthur Morgan. She’d just started on Mrs. Wilmington’s four grandchildren, when she saw a blue Jeep pull up under the Norway maple at the end of her drive.

  Lockwood got out slowly, one hand holding his head.

  He’d been taken to the hospital, unconscious, only a few hours before. What was he doing here?

  She had always liked Lockwood, and her first thought was pleasure at the idea that he had recovered and was coming to discuss the misunderstanding between him and Elizabeth. Her second thought was serious concern.

  He was a tall man, perhaps six and a half feet, and he was well built. Not in the least fat, all muscle and bone. He probably weighed two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. She wasn’t good at estimating heights and weights, but in her capacity as Casey’s deputy, she was learning. He walked with pride. Victoria had always liked that about Lockwood, his posture. Almost military. And a flat stomach. He hadn’t let himself develop a potbelly like so many men his age. He was usually meticulous about getting his thick hair trimmed, but she noticed, as he walked slowly toward the house, that a lock had fallen down over his forehead. His hair was a medium brown with gray streaks, very distinguished looking. And he’d grown a beard.

  Again, she wondered why he was here. Elizabeth acted as though she was terrified of him. What was this other side of Lockwood that she, Victoria, had never seen?

  He hitched up his trousers by the belt. Something heavy in the right hand pocket seemed to be dragging his pants down.

  He was not what one would call handsome, but he was certainly nice looking. He and Elizabeth had made an attractive couple, both of them tall and athletic.

  He wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. She couldn’t see his eyes from here because the sun reflected off the lenses, but she knew his eyes were green with red and gold flecks.

  He stopped halfway between the Jeep and the stone steps, leaned over slightly, put his hands on his head and held them there for a minute or two. Then he stood up straight and turned his back to the house, looking toward the village in the distance. A lovely clear day, and she could see the clock in the church steeple from her seat in the cookroom, could almost read the time. After a bit, he turned back toward her. He was wearing gray cotton work pants and a short-sleeved green and gray plaid cotton shirt.

  It was such a shame that he and Elizabeth had divorced. Lockwood was intelligent. He had a doctorate in petroleum geology, was a specialist in Russian oil at an important government agency, was well-read and witty, and could talk easily to people. What would make such an appealing man become the monster that Elizabeth and Casey described?

  Of course she believed Elizabeth, but still …

  Lockwood came up the stone steps slowly, and she rose from her chair to greet him. He rapped on the side of the open door into the kitchen.

  “Come in!” greeted Victoria. “Are you all right?”

  “Not really.” Lockwood was holding a hand against his temple. “I’ve got a fierce headache.”

  “What happened? Please, come in. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Coffee might help. Thanks, Victoria.”

  Lockwood was a rugged, strong, intelligent man. Perhaps Elizabeth …

  She pushed the thought away. Both Elizabeth and Casey saw Lockwood in a different light from the way she saw him. She poured mugs of coffee for both of them, and they sat in the cookroom.

  “You were about to say what happened,” Victoria prompted.

  He winced, closed his eyes, set his elbow on the table, and held his hand against his forehead. He was quite pale.

  “You’re hurting, aren’t you?” said Victoria.

  Without lifting his head he said, “Apparently I ate a variety of mushroom that blocks the metabolism of alcohol and I’d had some wine.”

  “Enough to cause such a reaction?”

  “Three glasses.”

  Victoria was aghast. “That doesn’t seem like much.”

  “Alcohol is poison. Normally, your liver metabolizes the poison and gets rid of it. But something in the mushroom prevents that.” He lifted his head and cleared his throat, a habit Victoria remembered. “Next time I eat those mushrooms, I won’t drink wine.”

  Victoria smiled.

  He stirred cream into his coffee. “They were delicious.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “I understand you were the one who found me.” He pressed his hand against his forehead again and gazed at her with his red-speckled green eyes.

  Victoria had a sudden jolt of unease, something abou
t his eyes. But she nodded. “What kind of mushrooms were they?”

  “Ink caps.” Lockwood stopped and held his head again as though to keep it from splitting open. He looked up after a bit. “Same effect as Alabuse, a drug used, supposedly, to treat alcoholism. Makes you want to have nothing more to do with alcohol.”

  Victoria knew the answer to her next question, but asked anyway. “Where were you when you ate them?”

  The timer bell rang. She got up from the table.

  “Excuse me, a moment. I’ve got to take the omelet out of the oven and check the bacon.” They had passed Lockwood’s Jeep on the road to Chilmark. Lockwood’s Jeep had brushed into Susan’s bicycle.

  When she returned Lockwood said, “I remember that’s how you always cooked bacon. In the oven.”

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Thank you, no. Not hungry.” He laid a hand on his stomach. “You know, Victoria, when I sit here talking to you I realize just how much I’ve lost.”

  “I’m sorry you two couldn’t work things out.”

  He shook his head and winced. “Elizabeth would never listen to reason.”

  “Did you talk to a marriage counselor?” Victoria knew the answer.

  “Useless,” he said.

  She looked away.

  “You probably wonder why I’m here.”

  Victoria said nothing.

  He shifted in his seat, reached into his pocket, tugged on something that seemed to be caught on the fabric.

  Victoria watched, fascinated.

  “God damn it!” he spit out, and, with the sound of cloth ripping, finally tugged a gun out of his pocket.

  Victoria pushed her chair back.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Victoria. I don’t plan to shoot anyone.”

  Victoria was silent.

  He examined the gun, turning it over and over. At one point he aimed it at his own face. “I intend to take Elizabeth home with me.” He plucked off a tuft of torn threads.

  The gun seemed huge. Blocky, with a handle that sloped back. A convenient molded place for fingers to grip. She could see the trigger, the trigger guard, and the muzzle, which was pointed away from her at the moment.

  And she knew what guns could do. She remained silent.

  This was the Lockwood she couldn’t reason with. The Lockwood Casey had warned her about.

  “What kind of gun is it?” She held out her hand.

  “Oh, no.” He moved the gun, still not pointing at her.

  “I don’t know anything about guns,” said Victoria, who actually knew quite a lot about guns. “Is that a revolver?”

  Lockwood stroked the base of the handle. “Pistol,” he said. “Semiautomatic.”

  “I see.” Perspiration trickled down her back. “After last night’s misadventure, you need to put something in your stomach.” She hoped he couldn’t sense how frightened she was.

  “I told you, I’m not hungry.” Lockwood clicked something on the gun. It was in his lap and he was fondling it in a way that made her feel queasy. “Where is she?”

  The two girls, she thought. If I upset him and he shoots me, will they come rushing in? A semiautomatic pistol means he can keep shooting. Would he kill Elizabeth? He doesn’t know Susan is here. Will he kill her, too? In this most unreal situation killing was a real possibility.

  “I said, where is she?” He pointed the gun at her.

  Time stopped. Victoria’s only weapon was her lilac wood stick. Fortunately it was within reach. He would most certainly shoot her before she could get to it, though.

  She had one slim chance and took it. She half rose and looked over Lockwood’s shoulder. “Oh, good morning!”

  Lockwood turned for a mere instant and immediately swiveled back. “You can’t trick me like that, Victoria. Ow!” He put the hand that wasn’t holding the gun to his head. But in that mere instant Victoria had gotten all the way to her feet, grabbed her stick, swung it over her head, and brought it down on Lockwood’s wrist with all the force she could muster. The stick landed with a horrible, sickening thwack! Lockwood dropped the gun and it went off with an explosion that shook the small room.

  Lockwood screamed. “You goddamned witch! My hand! You’ve broken it!” He tried to hold his head with his hands, but his right hand was useless. “You’ll pay for this!”

  Victoria kicked the fallen gun across the floor.

  He stood up, knocking his chair over, holding his limp wrist with his left hand. “You broke it!”

  Footsteps pounded toward the cookroom. “Gram? Omigod!”

  Lockwood groaned. “You’re coming home with me right now, Elizabeth. Your grandmother is crazy.”

  Elizabeth reached for the phone and dialed.

  Lockwood bent down to retrieve his gun. Victoria, adrenaline coursing through her veins, brought her stick down a second time on the back of his skull. He dropped heavily onto the leg of the overturned chair, breaking it, and impaling the right-hand pocket of his gray trousers on the snapped-off stump.

  “Wow!” Elizabeth examined Lockwood from the far side of the room. “Casey’s on the way.” She turned to her grandmother. “Wow!” she said again.

  “I hope I didn’t kill him,” said Victoria.

  “I hope you did,” said her granddaughter.

  * * *

  The police cruiser pulled up, siren screaming. While the vehicle was still moving, Junior leaped out, gun drawn, ran up the steps into the kitchen, skidded to a stop, and stared at the scene. Casey, gun drawn, was right behind him.

  Lockwood lay slumped facedown across Victoria’s overturned chair. A broken chair leg stuck out of his torn pants pocket. Victoria was sitting in her usual seat. In her right hand she held her lilac wood stick. In her left, she held the gun she’d picked up off the floor, as though she was prepared to shoot it.

  She set the pistol on the table. “Would someone please check the oven? I don’t want the bacon to burn.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Jane was reading to Davina before her afternoon nap when the phone rang. Abigail answered.

  “It’s Mrs. Mann for you, Missy.” She handed the phone to Jane. “I’ll finish reading to the baby and put her down for her nap.”

  “Charlotte,” said Jane. The two had called each other daily since their meeting the past Thursday.

  “I have a wonderful idea. May I stop by in the next hour?”

  “Of course. Can you stay for supper?”

  “I wish I could, but my boys have a softball game tonight and I have to fix supper and go to the game. But I have a couple of free hours, if you do. And I’d like to visit your beautiful daughter again.”

  “She should be up from her nap by then.”

  An hour later, Jane answered Charlotte’s knock on the door, and welcomed her into the house.

  Abigail appeared. “Wine and sandwiches again, Missy?” This afternoon she wore a tan muumuu with an abstract pattern of black and white leaves.

  “No sandwiches for me, thank you.” Charlotte patted her stomach. “Where do you get those wonderful dresses, Abigail?”

  “My niece who lives in Hilo, Hawaii, makes them.” Abigail smoothed the skirt of the muumuu.

  “I’d love to go there someday.”

  “Wine sounds good, Abigail,” said Jane.

  She and Charlotte went down the wide step into the living room and sat in the same seats they’d taken before, Charlotte on the couch, Jane on the chair at a right angle to her.

  “What’s the idea you mentioned, Charlotte?” Jane asked.

  “Ever since we spoke last Thursday, I’ve been mulling over a way to get through to Horace. He’s so wrapped up in himself he can’t believe he can do anything wrong.”

  “He proposed marriage to me,” said Jane. “I can’t believe I trusted him. How could he have talked about marriage to me when he was married to you? And you have two sons.” She shook her head. “I can’t understand that. I believed him.”

  “I’ve been doing some research on narcissis
m. Let me show you something.” She reached into her leather shoulder bag and brought out a paper. “These are some of the traits that define a narcissist.” She handed the paper to Jane.

  Jane took it and read, “‘A narcissist typically has problems in sustaining satisfying relationships; problems distinguishing self from others. Will use other people without considering the cost of doing so. Has an inability to view the world from the perspective of other people. Feels no sense of remorse, shame, or gratitude.’” She looked up from the paper. “Wow.”

  “Describes our Horace pretty well, doesn’t it.”

  Jane looked at the paper again. “Yes. You paid his way through dental school, I understand?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Narcissists are often charming. He’d been responsible for a serious episode in college that caused his adoptive parents to disown him, but I was in love with him. I made excuses for him. I thought it was only a terrible mistake he’d made and that he’d learned from it. But no.”

  Abigail came in with a tray holding the bottle of Merlot, two wineglasses, and a plate of crackers and cheese.

  “Thank you,” said Jane.

  “Baby should be waking up soon. Shall I bring her in, Missy, or you want me to put her out to play?”

  Jane glanced at Charlotte. “Davina can play for a bit while we talk.”

  Abigail nodded and left the two women together.

  “I didn’t mention this when we met last Thursday.” Charlotte helped herself to a cracker and spread cheese on it. She sat back and nibbled the cracker before she spoke again. “I’ve known for some time that Horace was having affairs, one after another.”

  “How could you stand it?”

  “For the same reason a lot of women stay with a man—the children. Our two boys. I always believed in marriage and family and wanted our boys to grow up with a father they could look up to. But Horace has never been that.”

  Jane poured wine into the glasses and handed one to Charlotte.

  “Lately, I’ve noticed the boys, young as they are, try to avoid their father whenever they can.”