Finney took one look at her. “What happened?” The inside of the car was chaos. White powder, blood, and a smell like that of a rutting goat, although he’d never smelled a rutting goat. “My God! I’m not intruding, am I?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” said the male passenger. “She hit a Volvo, the air bag went off, and she wasn’t wearing a seat belt.”
Dorothy’s face was swollen. Both eyes were black, her nose was mashed in, and dried blood streaked her face and stained her silk shirt.
“You’ve got to see a doctor. You look terrible.”
“Mind your own business, sonny.” The passenger got out of the car. He was a stocky guy, much shorter than Finney. He hitched up his pants. “Who in hell are you?”
Finney stood up straight and assumed his financier expression, nose raised, mouth turned down. “I’m Finney Solomon, Ms. Roche’s partner.” He held out a hand for the guy to shake, but the guy ignored it. “And you, sir?”
“Partner!” The man bent down to look at Dorothy, who was slumped over the wheel. “Doing just what?”
“Our company is installing an optical-fiber cable throughout the Island.”
“Is that right?” said the man.
“You haven’t told me your name, sir.”
“None of your goddamned business.” To Dorothy, “Get out.”
“I’m not sure I—” Dorothy whimpered.
“Get out!”
“She’s injured. Can’t you see?” said Finney. “I’ll take her to the emergency room.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” To Dorothy, “You getting out on your own, or am I yanking you out?”
“Sir!” said Finney.
“Shut up,” said the man.
Dorothy slowly opened the door, slowly swung her legs around, slowly eased herself out of the car, and slowly walked past Finney without looking at him and into her house on North Water Street.
The man came around the front of the car, hands balled up into fists, and glared up at Finney. “Partner, hey? In a fiber-optics company, hey? What the hell are you?”
“I’m chief financial officer.”
“Chief financial officer.” The man laughed.
Finney lifted his chin and gazed down at the man. “May I ask what your interest is in this?” With that, the man laughed again, a loud nasty laugh.
“Who are you?” asked Finney.
“Let’s hear who you are, first. Chief financial officer. What do you do as chief financial officer?”
“I raise money through venture capitalists, sir.”
“Yeah? Where’d you learn about that, in play school?”
Finney flushed. “I was mentored by the best. None other than Angelo Vulpone.”
“Is that right?” the man said again. “The great Angelo Vulpone?”
“Yes, sir,” said Finney. “Will you tell me who you are, now?”
“Sure,” said the man, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. “My name’s Basilio Vulpone. Tell you anything?”
Finney swallowed.
“Angelo Vulpone’s kid brother, that’s me. Better crawl out from under that rock and get outta here before I remember some more of who I am.”
Finney couldn’t think of what to say. “Ms. Roche needs to see a doctor.”
“Hell she does,” said Basilio Vulpone. “I go in there, I’m beating the shit outta her. Understand?” With that, he turned away from Finney, limped up the front steps, wrenched the door open, and slammed it shut behind him.
* * *
Ginny worked on her computer after Finney left, and Victoria soaked her sore toe in Epsom salts. When she could, she slipped her shoe back on and went out to the garden to deadhead the bee balm. She carefully snipped those that no longer held interest for the bees. A few hovered around the last of the blossoms, but most had moved on to the black-eyed Susans.
She was raking up the spent blossoms when Sean’s truck turned off New Lane into her pasture and stopped. He got out and slammed the door.
Victoria propped her rake against the screening of the vegetable garden and waited.
Sean stuck his head through the open truck window. “Get out, kid.”
Sandy Whitfield, the boy who’d put the yellow jackets in Orion’s car, slipped out of the passenger side and came around the front of the truck, head down, feet scuffing the short pasture grass, shoelaces undone.
“Thought you should hear this, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Sean. He turned to Sandy. “Go ahead.”
Sandy stopped in front of Victoria and looked up at her. “The man who told me to play that trick…?”
“The yellow jacket nest.”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, I seen him…”
“Saw him,” said Sean, who was leaning against the side of his truck, arms folded, feet crossed.
Sandy glanced at him. “I saw him walking up New Lane.”
“Go on, kid,” said Sean.
“Was it today you saw this man?” asked Victoria.
“Yes, ma’am. Walking up New Lane.”
“How long ago was that?”
“I went home for lunch and after lunch I went fishin’ and I seen him when I was coming home.”
“What did he look like?” asked Victoria.
Sandy looked over at Sean and shrugged.
“Was he Sean’s age?” asked Victoria. She wanted to sit down, or at least prop herself up with something. She reached for the rake and folded her hands on top of the handle and rested some of her weight on it.
“He wasn’t that old,” said Sandy, implying that Sean was elderly.
“What color hair did he have?”
“It was short. Brown, I guess? Not real dark brown.”
“Was he fat or thin?”
Sandy looked down at his toes. “Thin.”
“What was he wearing?”
Sandy shrugged.
“Jeans?”
“No, ma’am. Tan pants.”
“A jacket?”
“I guess. Dark, like black?”
“He was on New Lane. Where were you?”
“I was riding my bike.”
Victoria set the rake against the deer screening again. “How old are you, Sandy?”
He stood up straight. “Almost nine.”
“You’ve been most helpful. Thank you.”
“Sandy’s almost finished the report for Mr. Nanopoulos,” said Sean. “It’s not bad.”
Sandy thrust his hands into his pockets and looked down at his sneakers with the trace of a smile.
“You know who the guy is, Mrs. T?” Sean asked, pushing himself upright from the side of the truck.
“I believe I do,” said Victoria.
* * *
In the downstairs bathroom, Dorothy removed her bloodied silk shirt and dropped it into the wastebasket, washed her face carefully, examined her poor sore nose and black eyes, and after deciding between two robes hanging on the door, chose the simple white terry cloth rather than the leopard print. As she was combing her hair back in a plain girlish style, the front door slammed shut.
She checked her reflection in the mirror to make sure her expression was a suitable combination of innocence and penitence and decided a subtle limp would be appropriate.
“Bruce,” she cried, clasping her hands under her chin. “Thank God you weren’t hurt!”
His expression was murderous. At this moment, she could picture him killing her. He advanced toward her, and she pulled the robe around her throat.
“Follow me,” he said in a low growl she had never heard before, and she followed him into the library.
“Sit,” he said, pointing to the very chair she’d sat in when Orion announced the donation she was to make to the Outstretched Palm auction.
She sat.
Perhaps it was about the auction, not her takeover of the company. That auction item wasn’t her fault. It was Orion’s publicity stunt. She hoped Orion would realize her death had been his fault.
Bruce sat in the chair facing her an
d crossed his arms. He stared at her. She looked away. Was he feeling sorry for how badly injured she was? Did her black eyes make her look forlorn and pathetic?
“So. You’re the CEO of Universal Fiber Optics.”
“Ah … ah … ah…” This was not what she expected.
“That kid out there, that Finney something or other, he’s your chief financial officer?”
Dorothy clutched the robe around her throat. “He’s just the person you need. He can manage the finances of your company when you take over. Your own brother mentored him. He’s raising fourteen million for you.”
“What in hell are you blathering on about?”
“I’ve been working, the way you wanted me to, undercover, finding out about—”
“Shut up, will you!” He crossed his ankle over his knee and his pants leg rode up. Pale elastic threads from the top of his sock were tangled in the black hair of his leg. She stared with fascination. “I’ve seen rotten actresses, and you take the cake. Whose idea was that?”
“Idea?”
“You driving the drill rig up Main Street.”
“North Water Street,” Dorothy corrected. “Orion Nanopoulos. That was his idea.”
“And the luncheon for fifty people? You expect me to pay for that?”
“The guests can be anyone the winner wants to invite,” said Dorothy, not answering his question. “Potential investors, the people you want.”
Basilio uncrossed his arms and slammed his fists on the chair arms. “I don’t want a thing, understand? No people, no publicity, no fancy lunches, no broad riding a drill rig up Main Street. You know goddamned well Angelo never had a thing to do with that snot-nosed kid.”
Dorothy relaxed slightly and tightened her belt.
His voice, low up until now, rose. “I told you to look into this company on the strict QT. Not take it over.”
Dorothy clutched her throat. “I did it for you.”
“You’re a pretty slow learner.” He jabbed a thick finger at her. “You should know by now what happens to people who double-cross a Vulpone.”
Dorothy paled.
He laughed. “You hire this phony kid…”
“He’s wealthy.”
“That punk? He doesn’t have two cents to his name.”
Dorothy dropped her hands from the collar.
“It’s over,” he growled. “Not the first time someone threw you out of his house, is it?”
“What about our business?”
“You think I’d ever trust you again?”
“The auction…?”
“Yeah, the auction,” he repeated. He stood up. “You go ahead with that luncheon.”
“Thank you, Bruce.”
“Your dime.”
Dorothy was aghast. “I pay?”
“You expect me to pay? When you finish washing the luncheon dishes, pack up and get the hell outta my house and my life.” He folded his arms over his thick chest. “And give me back that sapphire necklace.”
“But…?”
Basilio’s face turned an unhealthy bright red. “I feel like squashing you like a cockroach.” He clapped his hands together with a loud splat. “An insect. Want to argue with me? You better shut your goddamned fat mouth and thank the good Lord you can still walk outta here.”
CHAPTER 34
After Sean and Sandy left, Victoria called Casey with the news that she knew the identity of the would-be yellow jacket killer.
“Put the coffee on. I’ll be right over.”
Five minutes later, Casey was in Victoria’s kitchen stirring milk and sugar into her coffee.
“You knew Sandy Whitfield admitted to putting the yellow jacket nest in Orion’s car.”
Casey nodded.
“Sandy recognized a man walking up New Lane as the one who’d put him up to the trick.”
Casey set her mug on the table. “Who was it?”
“Finney Solomon. He’s staying at that place on New Lane, and was coming to talk me into investing three million dollars in his project.”
“Three million? In his project?”
“He believes I’m a rich eccentric.”
Casey laughed. “Maybe he’s half-right.”
Victoria ignored the slur and sipped her coffee.
“What project is this?”
“He and the false Dorothy Roche plan to take over Orion’s fiber-optics company. Or they’ve already done so.”
“Nice pair. I’ll call Smalley and see how he wants to handle this.”
A minute or so later, Casey hung the phone back in its wall cradle. “Smalley says to keep him informed, but since it happened in West Tisbury and since no one was killed, for us to go ahead with our investigation.”
“What about their investigation into the two deaths?”
Casey shook her head. “Smalley said they were tied up. Didn’t say with what. But the murders are top priority.”
“Assuming Finney admits to the yellow jacket plot, what can we do to him?”
Casey sighed. “Not much, I’m afraid, Victoria. He can act contrite, say it was a practical joke gone wrong, and he’ll get a slap on the wrist.”
“It was attempted murder.” Victoria pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. “He can’t get away with that. That’s not right.”
“You have some thoughts on how to deal with him?”
“Orion will,” said Victoria, and she smiled.
* * *
Orion returned on Monday after a couple days off Island. Victoria was in the garden, as usual. She gathered up her basket of tools and headed toward his car. His window was down and he was listening to All Things Considered on public radio. He was turned away from her and hadn’t seen her approach.
She rapped on the side of the car. “Do you have a few minutes to talk? I have news for you.”
He switched off the radio. “Always have time for you.”
“Finney Solomon stopped by on Saturday urging me to to invest three million dollars in his fiber-optics company.”
Orion laughed.
“And I’ve identified the yellow jacket jokester.”
“Jokester, hey?” Orion closed his car window, got out, and stretched his arms over his head.
“I’ll make a pot of tea and we can sit out by the fishpond.” She headed to the house.
“I’ll make the tea,” Orion called to her back. “You put your gardening things away.”
Ten minutes later, Orion and Victoria, the dirt scrubbed out from under her fingernails, were seated on the moss-covered benches overlooking the fishpond with the teapot on a small table between them. Victoria poured and passed a mug to him.
“Start with the yellow jacket jokester,” said Orion, taking the mug.
She told him how Sandy had recognized the man.
“Let me guess,” said Orion. “Finney Solomon.”
“Sergeant Smalley told Casey there’s nothing he can do. I thought you might have some ideas.”
Orion grinned.
“Do I dare ask what you have in mind?”
“You can ask,” said Orion, smiling.
Victoria turned her attention to the goldfish, which had multiplied during the early part of summer. In the low afternoon sunlight the pond sparkled with gold glints as the fish turned and darted in unison.
“It’s been over four weeks since Angelo Vulpone’s murder,” Victoria said. “Now, Tris Waverley has been killed and Finney tried to kill you. Did he kill Angelo and Tris?”
Orion bent down, pulled up a grass stem, and stuck it in his mouth. “I doubt it.”
“The state police are still convinced that Angelo’s death is connected to the mob, despite his sons’ opinion that the mob would have chosen a restaurant or the front steps of a victim’s house, a public place in their own territory to show they can kill with impunity.”
Orion tossed the grass stem aside and laid his arm on the back of the bench.
Victoria said, “Why was Angelo murdered and why here? And w
hy Tris Waverley?” she leaned forward, and the approaching school of fish swerved with a bright flash. “You talked with Roger Paulson. What did you think of him?”
“Paulson is interested in more power.”
“You said he’d worked with Angelo Vulpone in the past. Did you learn any more about that relationship?”
“When Casper went to see him, Paulson claimed his wife committed suicide because of Angelo.”
“Good heavens!”
“When I talked to Paulson, I didn’t get beyond saying, ‘I understood Angelo was responsible for your wife’s—’ and he cut me off, furious.”
“I have a feeling our Dorothy was Angelo’s mistress before Basilio took over. Do you suppose Angelo had an affair with Paulson’s wife?”
“We’ll never know.”
“Perhaps she was pregnant by him.”
Orion shrugged. “Paulson’s only comment when I was leaving was that he’d be an easier partner to work with than Angelo.”
“I’ll see what Ginny can find out about the two men.” Victoria watched the fish. “Then there’s Basilio. Angelo objected to his younger brother dropping his Italian name and calling himself Bruce. A terrible insult to the family. Basilio was insanely jealous of his older brother. He tried in every way to outdo him. The final insult was that Angelo had two sons while Basilio had no children.”
Orion nodded.
“And then there’s Finney Solomon. Why should he attempt to kill you?”
“A good way to get rid of me.”
“Finney claims Angelo Vulpone mentored him, but Angelo’s sons never heard of Finney Solomon. They say their father never mentored anyone.”
Orion pulled up another grass stem, picked it apart, and tossed the pieces into the fishpond.
“Finney convinced Dorothy the false that he’s wealthy. I don’t think so. Ginny says he’s living on credit cards he gets in the mail. For his part, Finney is convinced that Dorothy is wealthy, and yet she hasn’t a cent of her own. It’s all Basilio’s. What is the relationship between Basilio and the false Dorothy? Something’s going on besides this much-too-obvious love nest.”
“Do you know anything about Basilio’s wife?”
“Her name is Maria Rosa,” said Victoria. “Her nephews say she won’t confront her husband about the other woman.”
The Bee Balm Murders Page 21
