After she’d piled the weeds and vines onto the compost heap, she turned to the bin next to it, where the compost was ready. It seemed magical, this transition from thorny vines, coffee grounds, grass clippings, eggshells, and other kitchen scraps into this soft, fluffy, sweet smelling earth that would nurture any plant she chose to put into it.
She dug out a pailful and returned to her excavation where McCavity lay, curled up, orange tail to pink nose.
“Sorry, Cavvy,” she said as he protested when she shoved him out of the hole, which she then filled with rich compost. The bed would be ready when the bloodroot arrived in the fall.
She’d done enough for now.
On the way back to the house she thought of Casey, going over guest lists, making sure no suspicious persons had been invited to West Tisbury at the time of the presidential visit. She could help with those lists. She knew everyone in the village and had written about most of their guests in her column. But she hadn’t been asked to help. Casey should be solving the murders and she should be going over the guest lists.
She’d talk to Casey about that again.
Right now, though, clearing up the mystery of Vivian’s phone call might answer a few questions. Tuesday was the day she usually read to the elderly at the nursing home connected to the hospital. It would be simple to find out who made the call to Vivian.
CHAPTER 36
On Tuesday morning, Casey picked up Victoria for her weekly reading. “There’s an all-Island police chiefs’ meeting, Victoria, so I may be late picking you up.”
“No problem,” said Victoria. “I have business at the hospital. I need to learn who called Vivian.”
Casey sighed. “I should be investigating. You should be checking my guest list.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?”
“Requires a security clearance.”
“Ridiculous,” said Victoria.
“I agree.” They pulled up to the nursing home’s main entrance and Victoria got out. “Good luck, Deputy.”
Victoria touched her fingers to her forehead in a kind of salute and went inside.
* * *
She read to her small group of patients for about an hour. Her volunteer stint at the nursing home always left her feeling depressed, and after she’d shaken hands with her audience and said goodbye, she walked slowly down the corridor that joined the two buildings. It didn’t matter what she read, the patients were glad to have someone talking to break the monotony of their days. The home, not really a home, was like a fancy hotel. Lovely caring nurses. A beautiful setting. Excellent food. A daily routine.
She sat down on one of the benches in the corridor.
That was just it. Routine. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren didn’t tear in and out, slamming doors, laughing, crying, shouting, arguing, playing, asking to be read to and snuggling up at one’s feet, thumb in mouth, hugging a favorite bear. People dropping by with town gossip and a dish. People dropping by with petitions to sign. Life and liveliness and vigor.
“Hi, Auntie Vic!”
Victoria looked up from her reverie. Hope, her grandniece, was striding down the corridor toward her. “I thought I might catch up to you. I heard about the chiefs’ meeting and figured you might have time to grab a bite to eat.”
Victoria brightened at the sight of her much-loved grandniece. “That’s exactly what I need.”
“Everything’s crazy with all the construction going on. They’ve moved the cafeteria.”
They hiked down the long corridor with its wide windows and view of the harbor and launched into the usual Island chatter about the president’s visit.
“We’ve been practicing drills for every emergency you can think of.”
“I suppose that means no beach time?” asked Victoria.
Hope shook her head and her long hair swirled around her face. “Not until he’s safely back home. What have you got planned for this afternoon, Auntie Vic?”
“You might be able to help me with some research.”
“Sure thing.” Hope steered them toward the cafeteria door. “After you. Best food on the Island.”
Victoria loaded up her tray with a chicken potpie, an avocado and tomato salad, a roll, and, reaching far back into the food display, the largest slice of blueberry pie.
“Ice cream on top, Mrs. Trumbull?” asked the counter woman.
“Coffee ice cream,” said Victoria. She reached into her wallet. “I’m paying for both of us.”
“I’ll bring your pie and ice cream to you when it’s time for dessert.”
They carried their trays to a table near the window and ate and talked. More about the president’s visit. Security at the hospital. Backgrounds checked. Specialists on call. Helicopters parked on the pad behind the hospital with pilots housed where they would be only seconds away from takeoff.
“Pretty exciting,” Hope concluded. “Now,” she said, changing the subject, “how’s Lockwood? Safely in jail, I hope.”
Victoria shook her head. “I didn’t press charges.”
Hope frowned. “The guy’s a loose cannon.”
“Imprisonment wouldn’t do any good,” said Victoria.
“I guess you know what you’re doing. So tell me what you need from me.” She stood up. “First, I’ll get your pie.”
“Here it comes now,” said Victoria, seeing the counter woman bringing her dessert.
Hope sat again. “Okay, what can I do for you, Aunty Vic?”
“Do you know anything about the woman who called Dr. Mann’s office the day Mrs. Wilmington died?” Victoria turned the plate so the pointed end of the pie faced her.
“Do I! What a furor that call of hers caused.” Hope leaned her elbows on the table. “The hospital fired her on the spot. Giving out patient information is a huge no-no.”
Victoria cut off the point with her fork. “Do you know anything about the woman?”
“Yeah, sure. Vivian was her friend. A close personal friend, as in spouse.”
“Ah,” said Victoria, referring to the piece of pie she’d just eaten. “Wonderful pie.”
“Good food at the hospital,” said Hope.
“Do you know where they lived?”
“I can find out. It’ll only take a couple of minutes.” Hope got up from the table. “How about a cup of coffee?”
“That would hit the spot. Regular, not decaf. Black.”
She had finished her pie and was still savoring her coffee, watching the birds at the birdfeeder in the small garden and thinking about Vivian when her grandniece returned.
Hope sat down and handed Victoria a paper with names, addresses, and phone numbers. “Her name is Pace Pacheco, lives in Oak Bluffs off Wing Road. She and Vivian were a pair for a long time, several years, anyway.”
“Did Pace find another job after she was fired?”
“I have no idea, Auntie Vic. Why?”
“I want to stop by her place on my way home and talk to her.”
“Can’t hurt. Can I do anything else for you?”
Victoria held up the paper with the address. “This is what I needed. Thank you.”
Hope checked her watch and stood. “Gotta run. Thanks for lunch, and good luck with the detective work.”
* * *
“I can’t spare more that fifteen minutes, max,” said Casey, when Victoria asked her to stop at the small house on Wing Road. “I have to go over the invitation list for someone who’s getting married. Why’d they have to pick the same date as the visit?”
“They probably set the date before the president did. I’ll volunteer an hour to go over the list.”
“You don’t have clearance,” muttered Casey.
“Sign your name to my work.”
Casey laughed. “Wish I’d thought of that two weeks ago.”
“I might have saved you several days.”
“Yeah, yeah, Victoria. Don’t rub it in.”
The house was a gray-shingled cabin with red trim, the size and shape of a trailer.
It was surrounded by scrub oak and pine and had a small vegetable and flower garden out front, with tomato plants and lettuce, daisies and early roses. Casey parked by the side of the road, and Victoria went up to the house.
Her knock was answered by a motherly middle-aged woman wearing a smock spotted with daubs of paint. She smelled of turpentine and was holding a long, narrow paint brush wet with yellow paint in one hand.
“Can I help you?” She did a sort of double take. “You’re Victoria Trumbull. I love your poetry. I’m Pace.”
“Thank you,” said Victoria. “I wanted to offer my condolences on Vivian’s death. I understand you and she were close.”
“Omigod”—Pace’s expression became grave—“come in, won’t you? Sorry about the mess.”
To Victoria, the mess looked considerably neater than her own house.
“You can sit wherever there’s a place. I’ve got to put this brush in turpentine.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your work,” said Victoria.
Pace thought a moment. “Come on into my studio, then. That’s what Vivian called it. It’s a corner of our bedroom.”
Victoria followed her the few steps. “I’m so sorry you lost both your job and your partner all at once.”
“That’s not all, Mrs. Trumbull.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “I’ll show you what I’m working on.”
The bedroom took up almost half of the small house. In one corner was a queen-size bed, a bureau, and two bedside tables. The other two-thirds of the room was taken up by Pace’s easel and a large deal table covered with tubes of paint and jars of brushes. Paintings were stacked against the legs of the table.
Pace took another deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Here.” She turned the easel so it faced Victoria. A portrait of Vivian.
“It’s beautiful,” said Victoria, meaning it. “You’ve given her a quality we never saw at the clinic, almost ethereal.”
“That’s how she was, Mrs. Trumbull. She was so inoffensive. Kind. Shy. Sweet. Why her?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“The job loss, well that’s okay, I guess. I’ll get unemployment. I’m painting, and I’ve got a few job possibilities lined up.” She glanced at the painting, tipped her head to one side, and examined it. “You don’t mind if I keep working?”
“Please do. Tell me about the call.”
“Stupid of me. But I’d just been diagnosed with breast cancer and that was why I called. To tell Vivian. I didn’t realize she’d freak out the way she did. I mean, it’s not a death sentence anymore. It’s something unpleasant that you have to deal with.” She dipped her brush into a swirl of blue and green paint and touched it to the side of Vivian’s face. The hint of color suddenly gave the face a three-dimensional quality. “I know chemo will be tough. I expected that. When she freaked out, I changed the subject to the first thing that came into my mind: Mrs. Wilmington’s death. Someone must have overheard me.” She worked silently at the painting for a few minutes. “Committing suicide is something I have trouble living with, Mrs. Trumbull. I should have waited until we were home and having a glass of wine before breaking the news.”
“She didn’t commit suicide,” said Victoria.
Pace stepped away from her painting, brush still in the air, and looked at Victoria. “What?”
“Someone apparently struck her on the back of the head, knocking her into the harbor.”
Pace sat on the foot of the bed. “Murdered?”
“You weren’t the cause of her death.”
“Who was?”
“We don’t know yet.” Victoria stood up.
“Oh, dear God!” Pace held her hand up to her forehead.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll be fine.”
“What you’ve just told me may help us find her killer,” said Victoria.
Pace glanced down at her paint-smeared hands, still holding the brush.
“I don’t like to leave you alone after that,” said Victoria, “but someone is waiting for me.”
Pace, too, stood. “You’ve brought bad news, Mrs. Trumbull, but you’ve also eased my guilt. Let me see you to the door.”
* * *
In the police cruiser, Victoria fastened her seat belt and sat back, looking straight ahead.
“Okay, Victoria. What happened in there?”
“We thought that phone call had upset Vivian because she heard something to do with Mrs. Wilmington’s murder.”
“Oh?” Casey started the engine.
“Her killer must have thought so, too.”
Casey checked the rearview mirror and pulled away from the side of the road. “Care to explain?”
Victoria nodded. “Pace had been diagnosed with breast cancer. That’s what upset Vivian.”
“Yikes,” said Casey. “If Vivian’s killer thought she knew something, he was waaaay off.”
“Waste. Such a terrible, terrible waste,” said Victoria.
* * *
Back home, Victoria called the dental clinic. “Good afternoon, Tiffany. Is Dr. Mann in?”
“No, ma’am. Can I help you?”
“Do you know where to reach him?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve got his cell number.” Papers shuffled and she came back on the phone with the number.
“Thank you,” said Victoria, disconnected, and dialed again.
He answered after the first ring.
“I want to offer my condolences, again,” said Victoria. “Such sad losses of both Mrs. Wilmington and Vivian.”
Mann cleared his throat. “Tragic. Both of them.”
“Would you care to stop by my house this afternoon for a cup of tea or a drink? I’d like to talk to you.”
“Is this something we can clear up on the phone?”
“It would be more pleasant over a drink. I’ve got Scotch, bourbon, and wine.”
“A social matter, not a police matter, then?”
“Both, but we’ll start with social.”
“All right. I was going to say I’m busy, but I’m not. What time?”
“Would four thirty be convenient?”
“I’ll see you then.”
“You know where I live?”
“Of course, Mrs. Trumbull. An Island landmark.”
CHAPTER 37
Victoria laid out crackers and cheese on the coffee table in the parlor, thinking the more formal setting would be to her advantage. The cookroom with its baskets hanging from the beams and its red-checked tablecloth might put him too much at ease. She didn’t know what his preferred drink was, so she brought out a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of bourbon along with the ice bucket and a pitcher of water.
Dr. Mann drove up at precisely four thirty and she met him at the door.
He was wearing an open-collared blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, pressed khaki trousers, and boat shoes with no socks. Victoria was accustomed to seeing him in a white lab coat over a dress shirt and tie. Now, he looked young and vulnerable and she could see his appeal to women.
“This is the first time I’ve been inside your house, Mrs. Trumbull. I drive past it all the time and have for years. It’s”—he paused—“authentic.”
“Thank you.” Victoria smiled. “I’m glad you agreed to come.”
She went into the parlor and he followed her. She sat in her usual mouse-colored wing chair and Mann perched on the stiff sofa with its elaborately carved back.
“You’ll have to help yourself,” Victoria said. “I’m not good at mixing drinks and I don’t know which you prefer.”
“You, first, Mrs. Trumbull. What’s your preference?”
“Bourbon,” said Victoria.
He reached for the bourbon bottle. “How do you like it?”
She indicated a half inch with thumb and forefinger. “With plenty of water.”
He poured hers, added water and ice, then poured bourbon for himself. “Cheers, Mrs. Trumbull.” He held up his glass.
“C
heers,” said Victoria.
“Down to business?” he asked. “Or shall we relax first?”
“The latter sounds good,” said Victoria. “Congratulations, by the way, on the three million dollar bequest. That’s going to be a big help for the clinic, isn’t it.”
“We can use an infusion of cash, quite frankly. Came at a good time.”
“Did you have any idea Mrs. Wilmington planned to bequeath you that?”
“I knew she was wealthy. I didn’t realize just how wealthy she was. You know, when I opened the clinic she and all four grandchildren were my first patients.”
He hadn’t answered her question. But this was their social time. Victoria tried to think of something that didn’t hit a hot button, but everything seemed fraught with meaning.
Fishing would be a safe topic. Almost everyone was a fisherman and those who weren’t liked to make fun of those who were.
“Do you like to fish, Dr. Mann?”
“Horace,” he corrected her. “No, but I enjoy eating what others catch.”
“The other day Sam Minnowfish caught several bluefish at Quansoo and brought me some nice fillets.”
“Sam is quite a fisherman,” said Mann.
“I baked them with mayonnaise and fresh dill,” said Victoria.
“Sounds delicious,” said Mann, toying with his glass.
The conversation lagged. Victoria decided to plunge right in and ask her questions. “How did Vivian happen to be working for you?”
“She answered an ad in the Island Enquirer. One of three people, and I hired her.”
“I’m surprised you got so few responses to the ad.”
“I offered a minimal wage with few benefits.” He smiled suddenly. “Free dental care.” He sipped his drink, put the glass down, and checked the bottle. “Maker’s Mark. Good bourbon.”
“I’m glad you enjoy it.” Victoria took a small sip of her own. “Patients seemed to like Vivian.”
“She wasn’t good with the chitchat that patients need. Otherwise, she was adequate. Conscientious.”
“Do you have any thoughts on what might have upset her so much in that last phone call, aside from the death of Mrs. Wilmington?”
Bloodroot Page 20
