The Bee Balm Murders

by Cynthia Riggs

  “That sounds fine. Thank you.”

  * * *

  Victoria hadn’t been hungry, but when Orion served her a fluffy omelet he’d cooked with a touch of cheese and herbs he’d picked from the garden, her appetite returned.

  While she was eating, Orion talked nonstop about the drilling machine. “It can be steered around tough obstacles,” he said. “It has so little impact on the surface, it can crawl over turf without disturbing it.” He added, “At least, not much.”

  While she was eating, Victoria heard a description of this remarkable machine. Its spindle speed and torque, its carriage thrust, pullback force, its aspiration, stroke, injection, its battery reserve …

  Victoria finished her omelet. “Thank you.”

  Orion took her plate into the kitchen and returned with a small bowl of coffee ice cream. Victoria was glad to listen to Orion without having to talk herself.

  “A huge difference in safety and environmental disruption between an open trench and this.” He stopped.

  “Go on,” said Victoria, and tilted her bowl to scoop up the last half-teaspoon of melted ice cream.

  “We can set a half-mile of cable in one day in this sandy soil, and the only disruption is the machine parked by the side of the road. Compare that with an open trench.”

  “Less chance of disposing of a body.” Victoria folded her napkin and stuck it into her silver napkin ring.

  “True.”

  “Have you had any success in finding the funding you lost with Angelo Vulpone’s death?”

  “I’m meeting with a man on Monday. He claims he has contacts in venture capital firms.” Orion must have noticed Victoria’s puzzled expression, because he added, “Venture capital firms invest in major projects like ours.”

  “Why don’t we go into the parlor where it’s more comfortable.” She rose and Orion immediately stood.

  “Who is this man you’re meeting with Monday?” she asked when they were settled in the parlor.

  Orion had seated himself in the rocker again. “His name is Finney Solomon.”

  Despite her nap, Victoria was feeling drowsy and was having trouble concentrating. “Aren’t you concerned that investors will take over your company if it’s successful?”

  “Not if, when.” Orion studied his landlady. “Are you feeling okay, Victoria?”

  “I feel dopey. The effects of that medicine I’m taking. I like hearing you talk.”

  Orion changed the subject. “You know just about everyone on the Island, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know many people outside of West Tisbury, at least, not the newcomers.”

  “You know where my office is?”

  “The building with a garage underneath?”

  He nodded.

  “It was built by an automobile mechanic. I can’t think of his name at the moment.”

  Orion rested his elbows on the chair arms. “Do you know anything about the house next door, the one with yellow siding?”

  “He built that house as a rental unit and moved off Island shortly after. The office was vacant for a while.”

  “I’m interested in the people living in the house. Do you know anything about them?”

  “Probably renters,” said Victoria. “Why do you ask?”

  “I was curious,” said Orion. “I’ve seen a man coming and going. Odd times of day. I haven’t seen anyone else.”

  “I have a Realtor friend who may be able to tell me who they are.” Victoria reached for a slip of paper and a pen on the end table. “What is the street address?”

  * * *

  The next morning, Victoria called her Realtor friend, Shirley Jensen.

  “Man named Tris Waverley rents it, Mrs. Trumbull. Let’s see what else I’ve got.” Victoria heard the clicking of computer keys. “He used Dorothy Roche as a reference.” Shirley paused. “Does that help?”

  “It does indeed,” said Victoria. “Do you know when he rented the place?”

  More clicking of keys. “Two months ago.”

  “That was shortly after Orion Nanopoulos rented his office,” Victoria murmured to herself.

  “Beg your pardon?” said Shirley.

  “Sorry, I was thinking out loud. Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t forget me if you hear of someone who wants a twelve-million-dollar home. I’ve got a nice listing.”

  “I’ll be sure to,” said Victoria.

  CHAPTER 8

  At eleven-thirty on Saturday, a convertible stopped at Victoria’s west door. She had dressed for the luncheon with Dorothy in her green plaid suit with a white blouse and earrings that matched.

  The car that pulled up to her door wasn’t the Mercedes. It was a Rolls-Royce.

  The driver got out and came up the stone steps. He was wearing what passed on the Vineyard for a uniform—white trousers and a blue blazer over an open-necked white shirt. He removed his cap and knocked on the side of Victoria’s open kitchen door.

  “Mrs. Trumbull?” he inquired. He offered her his arm and helped her into the passenger seat, then closed the door with an indescribably expensive thunk and went around to the driver’s side.

  He indicated the wide sky overhead. “Will this be too much wind for you?”

  “Certainly not.” Victoria settled into the leather upholstery and lifted her nose to breathe in the soft air.

  The driver, when asked, said his name was Tim, and that he was a graduate student at Tufts working for Ms. Roche this summer. He’d been with her two months now, and he liked working for her, he said. She appreciated beautiful cars.

  They drove toward Edgartown, mostly in silence, past the airport on the left, Morning Glory Farm on the right, its parking lot full of people with bags and baskets of fresh produce, past the field where sunflowers would bloom in August, past Sweetened Water Pond. Her grandfather always stopped the horse-drawn wagon there so Dolly could drink. They turned onto Main Street. Late yellow and white roses twined around the picket fence in front of the jail.

  Victoria waved regally to the summer people in shorts and knit shirts who gaped at the car and wondered who its celebrity passenger could be. They passed the brick courthouse and the grand Whaling Church, and turned left onto North Water Street.

  Dorothy Roche lived in one of the big white whaling captains’ houses, each one built to face the harbor. Since the street didn’t run parallel to the harbor, each house was at an angle to the street.

  Tim pulled into a brick-paved driveway, and Victoria waited for him to open her door. She took his arm and swept up the brick steps, through the door that was opened as though by magic, into a front hall that smelled of lavender furniture polish and camphor.

  Dorothy Roche greeted her. This was a Dorothy Roche who differed from the woman Victoria had seen on Wednesday. True, she was short, her hair was that awful metallic auburn, and her face was tight and shiny, as though her skin had been pulled back to her ears. But she was dressed in polite beige slacks and matching blouse. She held out her hands, apparently genuinely pleased to see Victoria.

  “I’m so honored to have you here.” She released Victoria’s hands. “We’ll dine alfresco by the grape arbor. But first, I have a request.”

  Victoria cringed, wondering about this request. She followed her hostess into a room to the left, which turned out to be the library.

  “I had an ulterior motive in inviting you here, Mrs. Trumbull,” Dorothy said sweetly, looking up at Victoria. “I own a copy of every one of your poetry books, and have read and re-read them with such delight. If it’s not an imposition, might you sign them for me?”

  Victoria couldn’t help but feel a surge of pleasure.

  On a polished mahogany table at one side of the large room was a display of her books, the covers protectively encased in archival plastic. There was a fountain pen next to the stack of books, and a chair arranged so she could write comfortably. This attention made her warm a bit more toward her hostess. The Rolls-Royce had started the thaw.

  Vi
ctoria signed all of the books with, “Best wishes, Victoria Trumbull,” and glanced up at Dorothy, who had been watching her with a look of admiration.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Trumbull. That means so much to me.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Victoria, getting to her feet.

  The house was pleasantly cool. Victoria assumed the harbor breezes played in through the big front windows, but they were all closed.

  “Central air,” Dorothy explained. “It’s the only way to protect my wonderful floors and woodwork. And the drapes, of course.” The curtain fabric had the same floral design as the wallpaper. Dorothy continued, “I feel an obligation to honor the past of my house.”

  Victoria thought of her own lived-in house, ancient when Dorothy’s was built. Victoria’s house thrummed with the sense of earlier generations. There was a mark on a fine mahogany table where a long-ago baby had cut its teeth. The old pine kitchen table sported crescent-shaped hammer marks from a forgotten teenager’s carpentry project. She cherished the initials carved on the wavy old window glass in the upstairs bedroom, probably with the diamond from a new engagement ring.

  They moved from room to room. The library, front parlor, and formal dining room were all as some decorator must have supposed they looked a hundred fifty years ago. The kitchen, with its high-tech appliances, was an exception.

  They went out a side door into the garden. A pond on one side teemed with goldfish. They strolled down a slate path to a grape arbor, where a table was set with linen and Limoges luncheon plates with a whimsical mixture of berries, butterflies, and green leaves.

  Overhead, a hinged screen kept grapes safely at bay, protecting anyone seated in the arbor from falling grapes and the yellow jackets that dined on the fermented fruit.

  An attractive young woman wheeled out a laden cart.

  Victoria was about to say she had very little appetite, when she looked more closely at the cart and decided she was hungry after all.

  Courtney, the young woman, served. Dorothy and Victoria talked about poetry, about Victoria’s work as a police officer. Dorothy had done her homework, and Victoria felt slightly ashamed that she knew nothing about Dorothy. They spooned up a cold potato soup and talked, moved on to a seafood salad and talked, continued on to crackers, assorted cheeses, and fruit, and talked some more.

  The luncheon over, Victoria looked at her watch. A large part of the afternoon had gone by. She’d meant to ask Dorothy how she’d learned about Orion’s fiber-optics project and the Ditch Witch drill, and, in some indirect way, how she’d obtained the machine and how she was paying for it. Although, when she looked around Dorothy’s house and grounds, money didn’t seem to be a problem.

  But it was time to go. “Thank you so much, Dorothy.”

  Tim handed her into the passenger seat and they backed out onto North Water Street and headed out of town through the maze of one-way streets.

  On the way, Victoria realized that she had meant to ask Dorothy about Angelo Vulpone’s death and find out if Dorothy had any insight on the murder, but the entire conversation had revolved around Victoria, and she, who was usually sensitive to the niceties of polite conversation, hadn’t even been aware of the way Dorothy had allowed her to monopolize it. She hadn’t gotten to know Dorothy at all, and Dorothy had found out much too much about her.

  * * *

  The luncheon had been pleasant, starting and ending with a ride in the Rolls-Royce. Victoria settled into her seat at the cookroom table and thought about it. The food had been prepared perfectly and served beautifully.

  But something she couldn’t quite put her finger on left her feeling uneasy. She lifted her typewriter onto the table and removed the cover. She would write a sestina, one that explored reality and perception.

  Dorothy’s had been a perfect setting. Off to one side a small waterfall trickled musically onto stones set just so around the small artificial pond. Even the shutters on the house were in perfect repair, the shingles a uniform silver. Victoria’s had weathered unevenly as she’d replaced patches here and there.

  She rolled a sheet of paper into her typewriter and typed the date. She lifted her hands from the keys.

  What was it that bothered her so much? It had been a picture-perfect setting with a perfectly charming hostess presiding. The hostess even had copies of all of her poetry books, all of them protected in plastic archival covers.

  That was the key, she suddenly realized. Her poetry books. They shouldn’t be protected from anything. She’d have felt much better if her books had been thumbed through with dog-eared pages and an occasional penciled note.

  Fingerprints and smears and stains meant use.

  Victoria gazed out the window at a newly patched section on the side of her own house, yellow and raw, tucked in among the older silvery shingles. Neither she nor her house would ever be as perfectly put-together as Dorothy Roche and her house.

  The more she thought about her shabby house and overgrown garden, her lawn with its dandelions and clover and plantain and who-knows-what wild grasses, the more uneasy she felt.

  And then it all came together.

  Her house was the way a house should be, lived in and loved. Dorothy’s house and Dorothy, herself, were phony.

  Nothing she’d seen today was real. The house and grounds and Dorothy were all artificial.

  This revelation made Victoria feel much better. She turned back to her typewriter and began to write her poem about perception and reality.

  * * *

  On Monday, Orion drove to the airport to meet his partner, Casper Martin, and Finney Solomon, the financier.

  The two had flown from New York to Boston and from there in a small plane to the Vineyard. Orion parked his car and strolled over to the gate, where he stood by the chain-link fence that separated people from airplanes, and waited for the Cape Air Cessna to arrive.

  It was a little after twelve-thirty, a hot day. A breeze ruffled the grass on either side of the runway and flicked Orion’s ponytail around his face.

  The plane landed, and the ground crew, one small, dark-haired woman, wheeled a stairway up to the plane. Two passengers disembarked, one after the other, stooping to get through the low door. The first, a man in his forties with carroty red hair, looked around expectantly, spotted Orion, and waved. He turned to the man behind him and said something Orion was too far away to hear. The second passenger, a freshly scrubbed–looking young man, followed him down the stairs and across the tarmac to where Orion stood by the gate, now open.

  The ground crew, the same dark-haired woman, wheeled the stairway off to one side, the door shut, and the Cessna taxied away.

  “Casper.” Orion stuck out his hand and the redhead grabbed it with his, clasping Orion’s shoulder with his other hand.

  “Good to see you, Orion.” Casper let go and turned to the man with him. “Finney Solomon, meet Orion Nanopoulos.”

  “How’re you doing?” The young man thrust out his hand and grinned, showing great white teeth. “Delighted to meet you, Orion.”

  “Same here.” Orion shook hands and studied the man, who, in turn, was studying him with a half-smile. Finney Solomon was taller than Orion, six-one or -two, nice looking without being too much so. Light brown hair cut short, hazel eyes.

  “I was shocked to hear about Angelo,” said Finney Solomon. “A good friend. Great guy. His wife and kids are devastated. Any word on what happened?”

  “Not many clues,” said Orion. “Shot in the back of his head, left in the trench in pouring rain. Just a fluke they found his body before they filled in the trench.”

  “A real loss.” Finney shook his head. He looked athletic, a swimmer or a runner or a bicyclist. Something like that. The guy oozed so much trustworthiness, Orion felt uncomfortable.

  “We have a lot to talk about,” said Orion.

  “We sure do,” said Finney. “Is there someplace we can talk in private?”

  “My office. Do you have any luggage?”

  “Jus
t our briefcases and carry-ons,” said Casper. “The pilot loaded them into a wing compartment.”

  “Yeah, that’s how it works,” said Orion. “The pilots are baggage handlers.”

  “At the check-in counter they asked how much we weigh,” said Finney. “Gives you kind of an odd feeling.”

  “They do that, too,” said Orion.

  “There was a woman going on to Nantucket, you could tell she was deciding whether she could subtract a few pounds and still get there safely.” Finney laughed.

  “Have you been to the Vineyard before?” asked Orion.

  “Couple of times, briefly. I took a sightseeing bus tour once. Saw what you could see in three hours. I’ve been hoping to come back and get to really know the Island.”

  Orion, who by this time had been on the Vineyard for three months, had walked its roads every day of those three months, and knew he’d seen only a minuscule portion.

  The two men picked up their briefcases from the luggage cart and walked with Orion to his station wagon.

  “You sit up front, Finney,” said Casper. “Better view, and I’ve seen it before.”

  “I just can’t get over Angelo’s death,” said Finney. “Things won’t be the same without him.”

  On their way to his office, Orion pointed out to Finney the sights he thought might interest him. The state forest with its stark, silvery snags, the failed venture of a planned forest product, where a rare and hungry fungus growing north of its usual range met up with the red pines grown for telephone poles south of their range. He showed Finney the now-defunct golf driving range that had been a wind farm and before that had been a gravel pit.

  Finney Solomon looked with interest. After Orion pointed out the commercial vineyard that had given up and sold out, Finney said, “You’re not trying to discourage investors, are you?” He smiled as if to indicate he was only kidding. “I’d like to see that Ditch Witch unit of yours.”

  “It’s on our way,” said Orion, passing, without comment, the pick-your-own-berries place that was for sale.

  CHAPTER 9