“A Ferrari,” she said after she introduced herself. “Are you Primo?”
“I am. And this is my brother, Umberto.”
The extremely tall slender man who’d emerged from the passenger seat was an elongated version of his older brother. He’d already taken off his sunglasses. He bowed slightly.
“I didn’t realize…” Primo said, then started over again. “From everything we’ve learned about you, I expected a much younger woman.” He stopped, clearly uncomfortable. “In her twenties, perhaps. I didn’t expect to find an elegant woman in her sixties.”
Victoria smiled. “Thank you.”
“I see you know fine cars, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Umberto. His nose, in fact both of their noses, were every bit as large as Victoria’s own—great beaks that began at the level of their eyebrows and arched out regally.
“Please, come in,” said Victoria. She led the way into the parlor. Primo followed her, and Umberto trailed behind, ducking his head to clear the door frame.
The two waited until she’d seated herself and then they, too, sat, Primo on the sofa next to Victoria’s wing chair, Umberto on the rocker.
“I’m so sorry about your father. His death under such circumstances must be especially difficult for you.”
“Thank you,” said Primo. He sat forward on the stiff sofa, his hands clasped between his knees.
Victoria served coffee to the two men—boys, really—and sat again.
Primo lifted his mug to her in a kind of salute. “Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“Of course,” said Victoria.
“As I told you on the phone, my brother and I,” he nodded at Umberto, “are not at all pleased with the progress the police are making in their investigation of our father’s death.”
Umberto looked up. “They’ve made no progress at all.”
Victoria said, “It’s my understanding there were few, if any, clues. Your father’s body was found, entirely by chance, at the bottom of a six-foot-deep trench in a foot of water. It was raining when they found him, and had been raining all night, washing away any footprints.”
She looked from one brother to the other. Dark brown eyes looked back at her. The two seemed priestlike in their somber black slacks, tieless black shirts buttoned up to the throat, black blazers. Black, wavy hair, and intense dark eyes in gloomy faces. There’d been only that brief smile of Primo’s when she’d recognized their Ferrari, to see how handsome he was.
They waited politely for her to finish speaking.
“The police believe your father was assassinated. That his death was likely to have been mob related.”
Primo set his mug down on the coffee table. “Father had mob connections, of course. Everybody in the construction business does.”
“At least in Jersey and New York,” said Umberto.
“But this was not a mob killing,” said Primo. “First off, Father knew how to work with the mob. It’s like a union, you know, you pay your dues, obey the rules, and they’ll protect you.”
Umberto nodded.
Primo continued. “Secondly, the mob wouldn’t follow Father to some remote island to kill him. They’d have taken him out at his favorite restaurant or his business office. Not here.”
“What was your father doing here on the Vineyard?” asked Victoria.
Primo shrugged. “We have no idea. He was interested in this fiber-optics project of Mr. Nanopoulos’s.”
“But it wasn’t like him to go into the field like that,” said Umberto. “He’d have ordered someone else to do that for him. He wouldn’t travel if he didn’t have to.”
“The entire setup is wrong, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Primo. “We’d like to hire you to look into it.”
“I’m not an investigator,” said Victoria.
“We’ve investigated you,” said Umberto with his first smile, a delightful duplicate of his brother’s.
Primo said, “We need someone who knows the Island and its people.”
“What if the killer is not from the Island?” asked Victoria.
“We trust you’ll recognize the marks of a stranger,” said Primo. He reached into an inside pocket in his blazer and brought out a checkbook.
Victoria held up her hand. “Wait. I need to think about this.”
“We’ve already made out the check, Mrs. Trumbull. It’s for a thousand dollars, as a retainer. We’ll cover any expenses you incur and will pay for your time at five hundred dollars a day. Is that reasonable?”
“No, not at all!” said Victoria. “I can’t possibly accept—”
“Make it seven hundred and fifty, Primo,” said Umberto, sitting forward.
Primo flushed. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Mrs. Trumbull. We’ll pay your rate, whatever it is. Seven hundred and fifty? Eight hundred? Plus expenses, of course.”
“Let me think about this,” said Victoria.
“Nine hundred, Primo,” said Umberto, gesturing with his hands.
“Stop!” said Victoria. “This has nothing to do with money. I don’t have—”
“A secretary, Primo,” said Umberto. “Mrs. Trumbull should have a secretary.”
“Personal assistant,” said Primo. “Would that make it easier for you, Mrs. Trumbull? To have a personal assistant to handle the paperwork and phone calls?”
Victoria sat back in her chair. If she weren’t taking that doxycycline and feeling less energetic than usual, she’d be better able to tell these intense young men that she didn’t want their money, that she knew nothing about tracking down a killer, and didn’t wish to learn how to do so. They were watching her with dark eyes.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll do what I can.”
Primo leapt to his feet, bent over her, and kissed her on both cheeks. “Thank you! We’ll put a car at your disposal.”
“I don’t drive,” said Victoria, lifting her nose into the air. She still resented losing her license simply because she’d backed into the Meals on Wheels van.
“Of course you don’t,” said Primo, stepping away in horror. “We’ll provide you with a driver, of course.” He tore the thousand-dollar check out of its leather binder, placed it on the coffee table, and set a nearby stone on top of it. Victoria had picked the stone up on the beach just the other day, a lucky stone with a broad white stripe around it.
Umberto looked at his watch and stood up. “We have forty-five minutes to catch that ferry, Primo, and we need to be in line a half-hour before sailing time.”
Victoria struggled to her feet, feeling inadequate, put upon, and outmaneuvered. If it weren’t for that Lyme disease, she’d have straightened out those two young men.
Umberto, too, bent down and kissed her on both cheeks. He carried the tray with its empty coffee mugs back into the kitchen. Victoria followed. For one of the few times in her life, she had no idea what to say.
Both Primo and Umberto flashed her their identical charming smiles and headed outside toward their bright red car.
“We look forward to hearing from you, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Primo, blowing her another kiss. “Cara mia!” He thrust his arms into the air.
“Ciao!” said Umberto.
While Victoria watched from the top of the stone steps, hugging her arms around herself, the two slipped back on their wraparound sunglasses. Primo slid behind the wheel, Umberto folded himself into the passenger seat, and the Ferrari squealed out of Victoria’s drive in a spray of sand as though competing in some kind of Island grand prix.
CHAPTER 16
After spending an uncomfortable weekend sleeping on his office cot, Orion awakened, groggy from working late. He met his crew at Five Corners, the busiest intersection on the Island, where five roads came together. Vehicles disembarking from the ferry met traffic heading in a snarl of different directions. For the most part, Island drivers waited their turns. Visitors from off Island plunged ahead into the mess, not understanding Vineyard traffic protocol.
This was the morning the Ditch Witch drill w
as to bore under that busy intersection.
Orion engaged the services of two off-duty Tisbury police officers to direct traffic, should the drilling hold things up at some point. Actually, it wasn’t the work that held up traffic, it was drivers slowing to ask why the cops were there.
Orion stood on the corner of State Road and Water Street, where drivers were likely to stop with questions. He was dressed, as usual, in jeans and a plaid shirt. He wore a hard hat and leaned on a shovel. A horn honked. A Subaru pulled over. The driver lowered the window and leaned over. “Say, buddy, what’s going on?”
Orion stepped over to the open window, his pleasant expression in place. “They’re laying a fiber-optic cable under the road, sir,” he said.
“Yeah? What’s it for?”
“Better communications.”
“About time. Tell the boss good luck.”
Orion touched the brim of his hard hat with two fingers. “I’ll do that.”
The driver gave him a thumbs-up and moved on.
By nine o’clock the drill head had crossed under State Road. The crew removed it, attached a device that grabbed onto the cable, and pulled it back through the hole that had been bored only a few minutes earlier. Orion dismissed the police with thanks, and went back to the drill. He and Mike spread out the map on the now mud-caked treads to recheck their next job site.
While they were studying the map, Orion’s cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket. “Nanopoulos.”
“Orion, it’s Amanda. We have a problem I don’t want to discuss on the phone.”
“I’m at a good stopping place,” said Orion. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Mike glanced up questioningly.
Orion shrugged. “My bookkeeper. I probably didn’t sign a check. Be back within the hour.”
* * *
After noon on Monday, while Orion headed to the bookkeeper’s office, Victoria and Casey made their rounds.
“Angelo Vulpone’s sons visited me this morning.”
“Yeah? What did they want?”
“They hired me to solve their father’s murder.”
“The police are working on it, Victoria.”
“Not fast enough, apparently. I was sympathetic.”
“A murder takes time to solve. You know that. Evidence has to be processed. Interviews.”
They passed the mill pond, turned toward the cemetery.
Victoria said, “I can’t understand why that man is so thick headed about that woman.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Orion Nanopoulos and that woman. I’ve only half-jokingly blamed his behavior on pheromones.”
“You’ve got bees in your—”
“Perfume is pheromones, scientifically concocted to make some man lust after a woman. Aftershave cologne, too. Pheromones designed to seduce some unsuspecting woman.”
“Wow!” said Casey, glancing away from the road with a smile. “You’re really steaming, Victoria.”
“Orion’s not stupid.”
Casey slowed around Dead Man’s Curve. “I gather ‘that woman’ is Dorothy Roche.”
“We know,” Victoria said, “the Dorothy Roche renting that house is not the Dorothy Roche she claims to be.”
“However, she lives in Edgartown.”
Victoria stared straight ahead.
Casey went on. “Edgartown is not in our jurisdiction. And, as far as I know, no one has complained about her.”
They passed Whiting’s fields and the New Ag Hall on the left, and crossed the bridge over Mill Brook.
“How can I contact the real Dorothy Roche’s television station?” Victoria asked.
“When we get back to the office, I’ll check the Internet. There’ll be someone at the studio to contact.”
Victoria settled back in her seat. “What is she trying to do? Take over Orion’s company? She doesn’t have any money, as far as I can tell. It’s all outrageous fakery.”
“I’ll treat you to a cup of chowder,” said Casey.
Victoria glanced at her. “You’re not listening to me.”
“I am. When we get back to the station house, I’ll contact the television studio that shows her films or whatever they are.”
“Chowder sounds good,” said Victoria.
* * *
Orion drove to the bookkeeper’s office in a small house off Spring Street in Vineyard Haven. He parked in her driveway and went to the back door. Amanda Medeiros opened the door. She was a stout woman in her early fifties with flyaway, prematurely white hair and pale blue eyes.
“Come in, Orion. I need to show you something.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been distracted over the past few days. Must have forgotten to sign—”
“No, not that. Come into my office.”
Orion bent over and untied his boots, kicked them off, and followed her, stocking-footed, across her white-tiled kitchen floor and into her office, with its hand-knotted, beige wool rug.
Her office overlooked a compulsively neat garden, where blue and white petunias and pink geraniums were neatly bounded by a plastic edge.
Orion thought briefly about trudging into Victoria’s parlor with his boots on. Perhaps he should leave them in her entry from now on. But perhaps not. Victoria’s floors were meant to be trod upon.
“You’d better sit down, Orion,” said Amanda, beckoning him to an armchair upholstered in cream and pink satin stripes. Orion eased himself down. Amanda sat and opened a manila folder, the only item on her desk, and picked out the top papers. She swiveled to face him.
Orion rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, his feet flat on the floor. He noted with relief that his socks were clean.
“It was my understanding, Orion, that Ms. Roche’s investment in Universal Fiber Optics was a piece of equipment called a ‘Ditch Witch horizontal directional drill’ for which she was to get a twenty percent share in the company.”
“That’s right,” said Orion.
“She was to pay for the equipment.”
“That’s right.”
Amanda handed him the papers without a word.
Orion took them from her and studied the top one. He looked up. Amanda sat with arms folded across her ample bosom, watching him with those light eyes.
“A bill for payments on the rig?” asked Orion.
“That’s right.” Amanda said. “Billed to your company. Not paid for or billed to Ms. Roche. I paid the bill, not having all the information I should have had.”
“This must be a mistake,” said Orion, slapping the paper with the back of his hand.
“I don’t think so. Check the next page.”
Orion slipped the first page underneath the papers he held. He read the page Amanda had indicated. He read it a second time. He looked up at her again.
“You see what I mean?” Amanda uncrossed her arms and leaned on her desk.
“She owns the title to the drill rig, and Universal Fiber Optics has been paying for it.”
“I hate to say this, but I warned you against her,” said Amanda. “I thought she was just a frivolous, stupid bitch.” Amanda heaved herself out of her chair, hands propped on her desk. “But she’s not. She’s a crafty, scheming, conniving, evil bitch.”
Orion set the papers back on Amanda’s desk with great deliberation, and plopped back into the satin chair.
“My God!” He ran both hands over the top of his head. He smoothed his mustache and dropped his hands into his lap. “I’ve been a fool.”
“I guess,” said Amanda. She sat down again. “Any thoughts on where we go from here?”
“Yes,” said Orion, standing up. “I have a very good idea where we go from here.”
CHAPTER 17
On Monday afternoon, Finney called Dorothy Roche to sound her out about taking over as CEO of Universal Fiber Optics. In his mind, the company was no longer Orion’s.
“Finney, darling,” Dorothy said after he broached the subject, “We need to talk, face-to-fa
ce. Get back here to Martha’s Vineyard as soon as possible. Tomorrow.”
“I’ll have to go over my schedule.” Finney laid the phone down and reached into the cardboard box where he kept his unpaid bills and checkbook. Was there enough in his account to pay for another flight to Martha’s Vineyard?
He paged through the checkbook. The answer was no. His monthly check from one of his clients was due in two weeks. When it came, the check would barely cover the stack of bills in the cardboard box, and the client was beginning to dither. Finney did not need the police on his back. The only way he could afford airfare was to put off paying the credit card bills, even though the finance charges were already killing him.
Fourteen million dollars.
He could raise that easily, if only would-be investors would listen to him. When Nanopoulos signed that contract, he’d get a monthly retainer, and six months from now, the finance charges would seem like nothing. What the hell. Charge the airfare on the latest credit card he’d gotten in the mail and had never used. That’s what he’d do.
“Dorothy,” he said, picking up the phone. “Sorry I had to put you on hold. Another call. Tied up with a mega deal that I expect to close at the end of the week. I can get a flight out of JFK on Friday afternoon.”
“Make it Wednesday, darling.” Dorothy’s voice was silky. “We have a lot to discuss. Let me know what flight you’ll be on, and I’ll have Tim pick you up at the airport. Why don’t you stay at the Harbor View? It’s within walking distance of my house.”
The elegant Harbor View was absolutely out of the question. Finney said quickly, “I prefer the Mansion House.” His gut churned when he thought of the hotel bill. “All right. Wednesday, then. I’ll give you a call with the flight number after I’ve taken care of my other affairs.”
* * *
Orion turned off Main Street, parked in back of his place, climbed the outside stairs, and let himself into the light, airy office. He could see the neighbor’s SUV in the driveway. He looked at his watch. Three o’clock.
According to Victoria, Tris Waverley had rented the place after Orion had rented his own office. He’d used Dorothy Roche as reference. After meeting with Amanda, Orion’s infatuation with Dorothy had chilled.
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