“The other woman being our false Dorothy Roche,” said Orion. “Passive types can turn into savage killers.”
The sun had gone down behind the house and the evening air was chilly. Victoria got slowly to her feet.
“We have a number of avenues to explore,” Victoria said. “Roger Paulson’s relationship to Angelo. And Finney’s and Basilio’s.” She thought a moment. “And the false Dorothy’s. How well did she know Angelo?”
Orion took the tray. “I’ll carry this in.”
Victoria shivered in the sudden chill and rubbed her arms. “It’s nippy this evening.”
As he held the door for her, he said, “Are you going to the auction? It’s less than a week from now.”
“Hardly,” said Victoria. “I don’t have the time, money, or inclination to bid on items I don’t need.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“Of course.” Victoria softened. “But a hundred dollars is too much to pay for the privilege of not bidding on a luncheon I could prepare better myself.”
“I have a proposal to make, Victoria.” He set the tray on the kitchen counter. “This auction will be special. I’d like you to go with me as my guest.”
“At a hundred dollars?”
“It will be well worth it, Victoria. Guaranteed.”
* * *
Maria Rosa, newly svelte, freshly coifed, wearing the emerald necklace that matched her eyes, and looking anything but passive, booked herself a first-class flight for Friday, August 10th, out of Newark to Boston, a flight that connected with a Cape Air flight to Martha’s Vineyard. She charged the airfare to Basilio’s American Express Platinum card, as she had charged her necklace.
* * *
After a good night’s sleep, Victoria came down the next morning to find Ginny already at work. Ginny looked up from her computer with a broad smile.
“I found what you wanted, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“Roger Paulson’s connection to Angelo Vulpone?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll print it out for you.” She tapped keys and the printer whirred into action. “Seems like Mr. Vulpone screwed Mr. Paulson out of several million.”
“Good heavens!” Victoria sat down at the table.
Ginny removed the pages the printer had spewed out. “It’s all here. Paulson and Vulpone were partners way back when, in their twenties. They started a construction company with Paulson’s family money and Vulpone’s business knowledge.”
“I suppose the relationship went sour?”
“To put it mildly. Ten years later, the company was one of the top construction companies in the world.” She glanced at Victoria. “Then Vulpone cut Paulson out. He’s locked up everything, legally. Paulson lost everything. The family money and any share in the huge profits.” She handed the pages to Victoria, who skimmed through them.
Ginny continued, “Paulson told the Financial Journal, well, you can see for yourself, Mrs. Trumbull.” She pointed to the pages Victoria was shuffling through.
“Yes, I’ve found the place.” She read, then looked away. “Mr. Paulson sounds quite intemperate.”
“To say the least.”
“This explains part of his antagonism.” Victoria set the pages aside. “Can you find anything about Roger Paulson’s wife’s suicide?”
CHAPTER 35
“I dug deeper into Finney Solomon’s background, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Ginny later the next morning. She’d been working steadily and refused to stop for a break. “I found out a lot more stuff about him.”
Victoria was at the kitchen sink arranging black-eyed Susans in the blue vase.
“He’s a lot older than he looks, for one thing.”
“That would explain all the jobs he’s held,” said Victoria, trimming the flower stems. “Anything else?”
“He’s got a record.”
Victoria dropped the flowers in the sink and went to the cookroom door. “A record?”
“He beat up a girlfriend. But she withdrew her complaint when she got out of the hospital.”
“Really!”
Ginny scrolled down the computer screen. “A company called Blake and Brown filed charges of embezzlement against him for stealing fifteen hundred dollars. He paid the money back, they dropped the charges and fired him.”
“Interesting.” Victoria sat down across from Ginny.
Ginny scrolled down. “Looks like he was arrested for possession of drugs, but I can’t find any details.”
“Any clue as to his relationship to Angelo Vulpone?”
“I was saving this one till last, Mrs. Trumbull. He was stalking Angelo Vulpone and Mr. Vulpone took out a restraining order against him.”
Victoria sighed. “And here I thought he was nothing more than an unusually obnoxious and naive young man.”
* * *
Victoria was absorbing Ginny’s latest report on Finney Solomon when Casey stopped by.
“I don’t believe you’ve met my personal assistant.”
Ginny looked up. “Good morning, ma’am.”
Casey nodded. “Personal assistant?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m helping Mrs.Trumbull with her murder investigation.”
Casey scowled.
Ginny rose. “I’ll step outside.”
“Sit down, Ginny.” Victoria turned to Casey. “Well?”
“Sergeant Smalley wants to talk to you. I’m here to take you to the police barracks.”
On the way there, Victoria told her what she’d learned from Ginny’s Internet search. About Angelo Vulpone and Roger Paulson, and about Finney Solomon’s record.
She finished by saying, “We’ve concentrated on Angelo Vulpone’s death so much we’ve overlooked Tris Waverley’s.”
“Not much to go on,” said Casey.
“Tris Waverley deposited fifty thousand dollars into his sister’s and his account shortly before he was killed. According to her, it had no connection to their business.”
“Sounds like a drug transaction,” said Casey.
They turned in at the state police barracks, a tidy restored Victorian house, light blue with white trim, not far from the hospital. Casey parked behind the building and they went in the side entrance. Sergeant Smalley led them into the conference room.
In the past, Victoria had had other dealings with Smalley, and liked the big, rugged officer. The three sat around the table. Smalley set a yellow legal pad in front of him. “I’m sure Chief O’Neill told you we’re following every lead possible in the deaths of Angelo Vulpone and Tris Waverley.” He clicked his mechanical pencil to expose more lead and looked down at the writing pad. “We know you’ve made contacts that we haven’t.” He drew an elaborate swirl that looked like the tendril on a grapevine.
Victoria said, “Would you like us to give you copies of all the information we’ve uncovered? I’m not sure all of our investigation has been done legally.”
Casey cleared her throat and glanced out the window to where she’d parked the Bronco.
“That’s what I was afraid of.” Smalley tossed his pencil down. “That girl who’s helping you is probably a genius at illegally breaking into computers.”
“Shall we stop this discussion now?”
He stroked his chin with a burly hand, picked up his pencil, and drew a bunch of grapes under the tendrils. “I didn’t hear you talk about anything illegal, Mrs. Trumbull.” He drew a leaf sprouting from the tendril. “I don’t need to know how you obtain your information. You’ve had a great deal of experience and can make educated guesses most of us can’t, you understand?” He met her eyes.
“I understand. I’ll be happy to give you my guesses based on long experience.”
Then she told him she had a hunch that Basilio had withdrawn fifty thousand dollars shortly before Tris Waverley deposited fifty thousand dollars.
Smalley nodded, writing notes under the heading of an elaborate grapevine bearing fruit.
She told him she guessed that Finney Solomon was not a disciple of Angelo
Vulpone’s; in fact, she’d had a vision of Angelo taking out a restraining order against Finney.
Smalley grunted, “Keep it simple, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“I suspected, then, that years ago Roger Paulson might have had a bitter feud with Angelo involving millions of dollars. All guesses, of course. Am I going too fast?”
Smalley cracked a weak smile and kept writing.
“The Dorothy Roche renting the house on North Water Street is actually Nora Rochester, the owner of a small cleaning firm in Secaucus, New Jersey. She’s taken the name of the vampire actress, Dorothy Roche, because her lover, Basilio Vulpone—”
“What!” Smalley stopped writing. “Vulpone?”
“Angelo’s younger brother.”
“Go on.”
“Basilio Vulpone owns a television studio that produces vampire films, and the real Dorothy Roche, who’s about twenty years old, acts in them. Dorothy Roche is her stage name. Her real name is Dorothy Carroll.”
Smalley tossed his pencil to one side.
“My personal assistant is the real Dorothy Roche’s sister,” said Victoria.
“Good Lord!” said Smalley. He picked up his pencil again. “Where were we going with this line?”
“Back to my educated guesses. Basilio set up the false Dorothy Roche in the North Water Street house ostensibly to gather information on Orion Nanopoulos’s project. Might this be a cover-up for drug smuggling?”
“Good thought.”
“Maybe the false Dorothy Roche double-crossed him by attempting to take over the fiber-optics company using his money.” Victoria sat back. “If they’re dealing with drugs, Basilio must be quite upset about any publicity.”
“You’ve been busy, Mrs. Trumbull. Can you guess as to who the killer might be?”
“Basilio was insanely jealous of his brother. I think he prided himself in taking over Angelo’s mistress.”
Smalley drew a trellis around his grapevine.
“Roger Paulson was financially ruined years ago when Angelo cheated him. Paulson’s wife committed suicide, and he blames Angelo.”
Smalley flipped to a new page on his yellow pad.
“Finney Solomon, who presented himself as a wealthy financier, is nothing but an impecunious, petty chiseler who pretended to be a disciple of Angelo Vulpone’s to induce investors to give him the money.”
“And his motive?”
“Angelo had taken out a restraining order on Finney and may have threatened to eliminate him.”
“That was an educated guess, I believe,” said Smalley, writing on the clean sheet.
“Then there’s the fake Dorothy Roche.”
“Right.”
“If she was Angelo’s former mistress, and I’m pretty sure she was, his wife may have found out and given him an ultimatum. I heard that he’d had a mistress he dumped.”
Casey had said nothing during the interview. She sat quietly, hands in her lap.
Smalley folded his hands on top of his yellow pad. “What about Waverley?”
Victoria shrugged. “I have no idea how that fits in. Tris Waverley clearly got fifty thousand dollars from Basilio Vulpone, but why? It would fit in with a drug business. Or perhaps blackmail.”
Smalley said, “Mrs. Trumbull, we appreciate everything you and your assistant have done. We’ll follow up your educated guesses legally.”
They all rose and shook hands.
“Thanks for bringing Mrs. Trumbull, Chief,” he said to Casey. “Mrs. Trumbull, if you have any other educated guesses to share, we’re wide open. Tell your assistant we can’t condone her hacking, we won’t even acknowledge it, but if I could, I would give her my thanks.”
“Of course.”
CHAPTER 36
On Friday, Maria Rosa took a cab to Newark Airport. Basilio, as usual, was away on a long trip.
When her flight was announced, she boarded with the other first-class passengers, and found her seat number on the right side of the aircraft. A nice-looking man stepped into the aisle from his seat next to hers and lifted her travel case into the overhead compartment.
“Thank you so much.” She fluttered her eyelashes the way she’d almost forgotten, and settled into the seat next to the window. She smiled at the man and selected the catalog of delightful objects she didn’t need from the seat pocket in front of her and opened it at random.
“Going far?” asked the man.
Maria Rosa glanced at him. He looked familiar and was even nicer looking than she’d first thought. Had she seen him someplace? A movie star? Or a TV anchor? She smiled and fingered her necklace. “I’m going to Martha’s Vineyard.”
“What a coincidence, so am I. You have a place there?”
“I’m staying at a hotel in Edgartown.” She closed the catalog, hoping this was the beginning of a pleasant conversation. “And you?”
He nodded. “I’m staying at the Harbor View.”
Maria Rosa let out a refined squeak. “That’s where I’m staying.”
“A wonderful hotel. You’re flying Cape Air?”
Maria Rosa nodded. Before she left home she’d experimented with mascara, and her eyelashes were exceedingly long and lush. She’d touched her upper lids with green, a shade that emphasized the color of her eyes.
“Do you fly to the Vineyard often?” he asked.
“This is my first visit.”
“I hope small planes don’t bother you.”
Maria Rosa was not afraid of anything. However, she allowed her voice to quaver slightly. “Small planes?” She looked up, wide-eyed.
“We may be the only passengers,” he said reassuringly. “Is your trip business? Or pleasure?”
The flight attendant came through, checking to see that seat belts were securely fastened, that overhead compartments were safely shut.
“A little of each,” said Maria Rosa. “I’m attending the Outstretched Palm auction.”
“Another coincidence. I’m one of the auction items,” he said modestly.
“Really!” Maria Rosa smiled, knowing her smile was her second best feature after her eyes. “You, yourself are the item? And who are you, by the way?”
“Sorry,” said the man, and flushed slightly. “I’m afraid I’m used to being recognized.” He extracted his slim leather wallet from his back pocket and removed a card. “I’m Bill Williams.”
Maria Rosa tried to look delighted, but had no idea who Bill Williams was.
He, in turn, looked disappointed. “Sports announcer. As an auction item, I’m offering a seat next to me in the broadcast booth for a Giants game, plus lunch with the sports news reporting gang.”
“Of course,” said Maria Rosa, still mystified. “I’m sure I’ve seen you.”
The safety announcement came on and Maria Rosa dutifully watched and listened to instructions about what to do in the unlikely event of a water landing.
“And you, beautiful lady, are…?”
“I’m Maria Rosa Vulpone.” She tugged on the strap of her seat belt to tighten it.
The plane started to move, and Maria Rosa suddenly felt nervous, an alien emotion. She hadn’t flown in an airplane for a long, long time.
“Vulpone,” Bill Williams repeated. “Any relation to the Triple V TV channel?”
She nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed. “The same. My husband, Basilio. Bruce.”
“Great programming,” said Bill Williams. “I love vampires. I know it’s for kids, but, well…”
The plane turned onto the runway, the engines roared, they started to move down the runway. Maria Rosa felt faint. The airplane tilted up suddenly, machinery somewhere beneath her made a horrible grinding noise, a section of the fragile wings opened and she could see the vanishing ground through the crack, which then closed. She clutched Bill William’s hand in hers.
“It’s okay, Maria Rosa. Don’t you worry about a thing.” He put his left hand, a large, strong, muscular, comforting hand, on top of her trembling one. “I won’t let anything happen to you.
”
The plane leveled off. Maria Rosa removed her hand from his, and looked suitably ashamed of herself.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured over the roar of engines.
“Quite understandable.” He patted his chest. “I’m honored to be of assistance.”
She turned to the window and looked down at the tiny houses below, the green trees, the bright golf courses with patches of white sand, the turquoise swimming pools.
He cleared his throat and she looked away from Earth so far below. “I hope you’ll excuse me for a few minutes. I have to text my office.”
Maria Rosa looked out again. They were flying through an insubstantial cloud that blocked her view.
Bill Williams extracted an iPhone from his sports coat pocket, unlocked it, and began texting.
Five minutes later they were above the clouds, solid puffs of whipped cream that reflected dazzling sunlight.
The flight attendant wheeled a cart down the aisle with complimentary beverages. Bill requested champagne.
“I really shouldn’t,” said Maria Rosa, accepting the long slender glass the flight attendant poured.
When the cart was wheeled away he asked, “Will your husband be picking you up?”
Maria Rosa took a sip of her champagne, decided she liked it, and took another small sip before she answered. “He doesn’t know I’m going to Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Ah!” said Bill Williams. “Perhaps I can give you a ride to our hotel, then?” He emphasized the word “our.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble at all. A volunteer from the auction committee is picking me up. I’m sure there’ll be room for both of us. What made you decide to attend the auction?”
“Some woman,” Maria Rosa permitted herself a small smile, “is donating a ride on a drill rig plus luncheon.”
“I heard about that. It’s made the national news. And you intend to bid on it?”
“I intend to win it.”
He examined her with respect—the emerald necklace, the eyes, the smile—and lifted his empty glass in a toast to her. “Good luck.”
The flight attendant came back down the aisle sans cart, carrying the champagne bottle swathed in white linen. “More champagne, sir? Ma’am?”
The Bee Balm Murders Page 22
