More pounding.
“Just a minute,” Abigail shouted. “Keep your shirt on! Got something on the stove.”
More pounding, then the crash of breaking glass.
“Abigail?” Jane cried out. She lifted Davina from the tub into a towel.
Davina started to cry. “Ducky?”
“Just a moment, honey.”
Abigail flew past the bathroom door with a butcher knife in her hand, fire in her eyes, muttering, “That Mann has gone too far this time.”
Shouts. Curses. Confusion. A wet and sobbing baby. Jane wrapped the towel tightly around Davina and crept into the adjoining bedroom. More voices. It sounded as though an army was at her door. All Jane could think about was her daughter, and she held her so tightly, Davina cried out between sobs.
“I’m so sorry, honey. It’s all right.” She had no idea what was all right. Horace must have cracked up. Abigail had called out his name. She opened the closet door thinking she and the baby could hide there, then thought that would be a place from which she couldn’t retreat, and, still holding Davina tightly wrapped in the towel, opened the glass door that led out to the beach. Or up the hill to the gazebo. Someone would be out there to help.
* * *
Abigail had dialed 911 before she grabbed the butcher knife. She skidded to a stop, the knife held out in front of her like a lance. The man in front of her wasn’t the man she expected and she stopped short.
“Who you think you are?” she demanded, the knife pointed at Arthur’s stomach. Abigail, who normally spoke pure English with a British accent, lapsed into street talk.
“Where is she?” demanded Arthur.
“You take one step more, mon, an’ I’ll gut you,” said Abigail.
Arthur backed up and backed into Lockwood.
“What do you think you’re doing?” demanded Lockwood. “Where is she?”
“She’s in there, all right,” said Arthur. He faced Abigail. “Let me by.”
“Hell I will.” The blade of the nicely honed butcher knife glistened. “And who you think you are?” to Lockwood.
“I’ve come to take her home with me.”
“What you talkin’ about, mon?”
“She’s my wife,” said Lockwood, with dignity.
“Your wife?” said Arthur, turning to stare at him.
“She ain’t nobody’s wife, mon.”
“She’s my wife and I’m taking her home,” said Lockwood.
“Whore!” Arthur cried out.
“Don’t you call my wife a whore, you runty bastard,” said Lockwood, lifting his hands as though to throttle Arthur.
Victoria emerged from behind Lockwood.
Abigail, eyebrows raised high, said, “Miz Trumbull?”
Arthur moved forward and Abigail ticked his shirt with the point of the knife. Arthur backed up.
Without moving, Abigail said, “An’ who’s that?” as O’Malley lined up behind Victoria.
O’Malley held up both hands in surrender. “Just an onlooker.”
“God damn it, where is she?” demanded Lockwood.
Abigail’s eyes glittered. “Someone care to tell me what’s goin’ on?”
“I’m gonna kill her, that’s what,” muttered Arthur.
“Hell you will.” Abigail pricked his shirt, drawing blood. Arthur looked down and backed up some more.
“Where’s the phone?” asked Victoria. “I’ll call the police.”
“Already on the way,” said Abigail.
“Let me by,” said Arthur.
“She’s my wife,” said Lockwood.
“That baby of hers…,” said Arthur.
“What baby!” said Lockwood.
“Y’all shut up,” said Abigail. “Stand right there until the po-lice come, an’ straighten this mess out.”
* * *
Jane, holding Davina in the damp towel, crept around through the bayberry bushes and wild roses at the side of the house until she reached the small gazebo that overlooked the harbor.
“Mama play?”
“Yes, honey, we’re playing a game.”
Davina stuck her thumb in her mouth and snuggled against her mother. Jane, holding her tightly, sat on the bench that ran around the inside of the gazebo where she could see the front door of her house.
At least five people were gathered there. Sweat had dripped into her eyes, and it took her a moment to focus. When she did, she could make out Abigail. The blade of her butcher knife glittered and so did her eyes. Victoria Trumbull? What was she doing here? She made out Arthur, and Abigail was pointing her knife at him. There were two men Jane didn’t recognize. Her cell phone was in the house. She had no idea what was going on. She had expected to see Horace, not this.
She watched for several minutes, trying to sort things out.
Two police cars, one marked TISBURY POLICE, the other marked WEST TISBURY POLICE, arrived, sirens screaming, red and blue lights flashing. They screeched to a stop behind the dump truck. Four police officers got out, guns drawn. One she recognized as West Tisbury’s chief of police,
Davina pulled her thumb out of her mouth. “Mama play?”
“Yes, honey. It’s all a game.”
* * *
When the police finished, Arthur sat in handcuffs in the backseat of the Tisbury cruiser, headed for the County of Dukes County House of Correction. The state police would meet him there.
Casey shook her head. “Don’t know how you do it, Victoria.”
Abigail went into the kitchen with her knife and Victoria heard her singing as she stroked the blade on a whetstone.
Junior Norton walked up the hill to fetch Jane and returned, holding the baby in one arm, Jane’s hand in his.
Lockwood saw Jane. “That’s who you were protecting?”
“Yes,” said Victoria.
“Where’s Elizabeth?”
“She’s with the president’s security people.”
“You, Victoria!” He jabbed a finger of his left hand at her. “You’ve made a fool of me!”
He started to limp away but turned abruptly, slamming his bandaged ankle into a large rock.
“Ouch! Owww!” He lifted his injured foot a few inches off the ground. Tears of pain streamed down his cheeks. “Now look what you’ve done, you … you…” He lowered his foot gingerly. “You and that granddaughter of yours … you haven’t heard the last of me … I’ll be back!”
Casey was standing next to Victoria, her hand on the butt of her gun. “We’ll be waiting for you.”
He turned away in disgust, carefully this time, and limped back to his Jeep. He climbed in slowly and slammed the door shut.
“Crazy, both of them,” Victoria heard him mutter. “Ought to institutionalize both of them.”
He started up the engine and headed up the hill in the direction of the Steamship Authority dock. From Jane’s living room window, Victoria could see the ferry rounding the jetty. He’d be able to make it.
Junior climbed into the backseat of the police cruiser and Victoria sat in the shotgun seat.
Casey settled herself in the driver’s seat. “If he tries any funny business, I’m putting that loony away permanently. You’ll have nothing to say about it, Victoria.”
She backed the vehicle around and headed up the hill. “Well, you’ve done it again.” At the top of the hill she turned onto Upper Main Street. “I was sure the grandkids had killed Mrs. Wilmington. Once the president had come and gone, I planned to focus on them.”
“Did the guest lists get approval from the authorities?” asked Victoria.
“I got congratulated by some guy in the Secret Service for a thorough job of knowing and vetting the people of my village and their guests. They’re giving me a letter of commendation.” She glanced at Victoria.
Victoria patted her hair and smiled.
* * *
Two nights later, Victoria and Elizabeth were in the parlor. Victoria was holding her glass of cranberry juice and rum up so she could watch th
e firelight flicker through the ruby red drink, when there was a knock on the kitchen door. She set her glass down and Susan came into the parlor.
“I heard the news, Mrs. Trumbull, that Arthur admitted to both killings.”
“Yes.”
“I was sure my brothers and sister were responsible.”
“Let me fix you a drink,” said Elizabeth, and left, returning shortly with a glass in hand. “Has Scott recovered from the mushroom episode?”
“I knew they’d been drinking and I was sure they’d eat the sautéed mushrooms I left in the fridge.” Susan sipped her drink. “I’m ashamed of setting them up like that. I knew if any of them ate those mushrooms they’d be sick. I didn’t realize how sick. At least Heather and Wesley didn’t eat them.”
“It was fortunate that Lockwood did,” said Victoria. “If he hadn’t been suffering from a horrendous headache, I’d never have been able to distract him long enough to make him drop his gun.”
“Well, Scott swears he’ll never touch another drop of liquor as long as he lives. He’s having dinner tonight with that dentist, Dr. McBride.” Susan sipped some more of her drink and watched the flickering firelight. “You know, Mrs. Trumbull, I’m definitely turning Grandmother’s house into a country inn. If my sibs want to partner with me, fine. If not, well, that’s fine, too.”
OTHER MARTHA’S VINEYARD MYSTERIES BY CYNTHIA RIGGS
Poison Ivy
The Bee Balm Murders
Touch-Me-Not
Death and Honesty
Shooting Star
Indian Pipes
The Paperwhite Narcissus
Jack in the Pulpit
The Cemetery Yew
The Cranefly Orchid Murders
Deadly Nightshade
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CYNTHIA RIGGS is the author of twelve books in the Martha’s Vineyard mystery series. She was born on Martha’s Vineyard and is the eighth generation to live in her family homestead, which she runs as a bed-and-breakfast catering to poets, writers, and other creative people. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Also by Cynthia Riggs
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
BLOODROOT. Copyright © 2016 by Cynthia Riggs. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustration by Ken Joudrey
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Riggs, Cynthia, author.
Title: Bloodroot: a Martha’s Vineyard mystery / Cynthia Riggs.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2016. | Series: Martha’s vineyard mysteries | “A Thomas Dunne book.”
Identifiers: LCCN 2015050414 | ISBN 9781250058683 (hardback) | ISBN 9781466863095 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Trumbull, Victoria (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Martha’s Vineyard (Mass.)—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3618.I394 B58 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015050414
e-ISBN 9781466863095
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First Edition: May 2016
Bloodroot Page 26
