The Bee Balm Murders

by Cynthia Riggs

  “Why not,” said Bill, handing over both glasses.

  “Do you have dinner plans?” he asked when they’d clinked their glasses together for the second time.

  Maria Rosa, now fully accustomed to being airborne, soothed by drink, and positive that she would win that bid, said, the way she might have back at Notre Dame High, “If you’re inviting me to dinner, sir, I’d be delighted.”

  * * *

  The next morning, the day before the auction, Maria Rosa walked slowly down North Water Street admiring the elegant captains’ houses on her right. It was a bright, clear day, cool enough for a sweater. After dinner the evening before, she and Bill Williams had hiked down the path from the hotel to the lighthouse, then strolled along the beach, talking until the evening chill set in.

  Somewhere along here on North Water Street, between the Harbor View and Main Street, the bogus Dorothy Roche was staying, Maria Rosa mused. Courtesy of her Basilio, the cheat. The liar. The fat fool.

  Such a difference. Bill Williams would never have chewed with his mouth open, or put his elbows on the table. He was so courteous. Would Basilio have walked with her? Never. He was fat and lazy. Bill Williams was slim and tall and fit. Would Basilio think of strolling along the beach, picking up shells, talking, laughing? Never.

  She sighed.

  As she approached one of the big houses on her right, she saw a familiar car, a Mercedes like Basilio’s. Except for a small patch on the driver’s side that had been wiped clear, the windows were dusted with white powder that kept her from seeing inside. Before she had time to think about what the white powder meant, the front door of the house opened. She heard a woman’s voice, a man’s growl.

  She crossed the road and stood half-hidden behind a large lilac bush, its heart-shaped leaves concealing the dry remembrance of flowers.

  Basilio emerged from the house, climbed down the front steps, turned right, and lumbered toward Main Street without even glancing in her direction.

  Maria Rosa headed back toward the Harbor View, the white houses now on her left, the harbor on her right. She felt curiously light and quite pleased with herself.

  * * *

  The Ferrari skidded to a stop in the drive. Primo escorted a young woman, who bore a strong resemblance to Ginny, into the kitchen. Ginny got up from her seat with a squeal of delight and threw her arms around her sister.

  Primo stood by with a smile.

  Victoria said, “You must be the true Dorothy Roche.”

  The young woman, girl, really, turned immediately. “How rude of me! I’m so sorry!” She then embraced Victoria.

  “I didn’t think you could break away from that awful boss of yours,” said Ginny.

  “He’s out of town. Primo,” she blushed prettily, “made a flight reservation for me and, well, here I am.”

  “Wonderful timing,” said Victoria. “I hope you’re planning to take both girls to the auction tomorrow?”

  Primo hesitated. “As your chauffeur…”

  “I have a date,” said Victoria. “He’ll be driving me.”

  CHAPTER 37

  The day of the Outstretched Palm auction was clear, bright, cool, and dry. A perfect day for the event.

  Victoria dressed in her green plaid suit and white blouse with a soft bow at the neck. She clipped on the earrings that went with her suit, found her leather purse, and she was almost ready to go.

  She located her police hat in the black bowl under some papers, and tucked it into her purse. She then decided to take her lilac-wood walking stick. Not only would it be good camouflage, making her seem frail, it would also serve as a weapon, in case she needed such a thing.

  Orion had promised to get her to the auction well ahead of time. He came directly from his office, wearing jeans, boots, and an olive green cotton shirt.

  They arrived almost an hour early and the mown hayfield parking area was already half-full. Volunteers in orange vests directed them to a spot and Orion and Victoria walked to a gate in a tall freshly clipped privet hedge, where volunteers took their tickets. The gate led to the enclosed lawn behind the hotel.

  The volunteer said, “Thank you sir, madam,” and turned to the next person in line. “May I help you, sir?”

  A hundred or more white folding chairs were set up on the ultra-green grass under a large tent. Edging the lawn, between it and the enclosing hedge, was a wide flower bed in a palette of colors and sizes that ranged from pale blue lobelia to sunflowers as tall as small trees.

  “You could hide in there,” Victoria said, “surrounded by scents and color. What a paradise for children!”

  A gray-haired volunteer in a filmy white dress greeted them. “Mrs. Trumbull! We were so glad to hear you were coming. We have two seats for you on row three, right on the aisle. And, Mr. Nanopoulis, there’s a cash bar, if you’d like a bit of refreshment before the event.”

  Victoria wanted to browse on her own. “I’ll see you back at our seats,” she told Orion.

  * * *

  Orion, too, wanted to browse. After a few minutes of strolling through the crowd, looking and greeting, he spotted Finney Solomon talking with great sincerity to a prosperous-looking elderly couple.

  “Finney,” Orion interrupted. “Great to see you.” He turned to the couple. “Wonderful event. My name’s Nanopoulos. Orion Nanopoulos.” He held out a hand to the man and they shook.

  “Matthew and Martha Lodge. Your name is certainly familiar, Mr. Nanopoulos. Horses, right?”

  “A long time ago,” said Orion.

  Finney cleared his throat.

  “I see you’ve met my friend, Finney Solomon.” He turned to Finney. “You must be relieved to have that Blake and Brown matter cleared up.”

  Finney paled.

  “Blake and Brown?” asked Matthew Lodge. “Blake is a good friend. Fine man. Had a problem with an embezzler a few years back. Did you have some dealings with the firm?”

  “I … I…” said Finney. “Some time ago.”

  “Couldn’t have been too long ago, young man,” said Matthew Lodge with a hearty laugh. “Finney Solomon. I’ll tell Blake I ran into you on the Vineyard. You’re, what, chief financial officer of a fiber-optics firm?”

  Finney glanced around. “I see someone I’ve got to say hello to. Good to meet you.”

  “Nice fellow,” said Matthew Lodge.

  Orion smiled and watched where Finney was heading.

  * * *

  Victoria rolled up her program and took it with her. She strolled down the center aisle, appreciating the feel of soft grass under her feet. She greeted a dozen people who knew her, and kept walking and looking. She reached the last row of chairs and left the shelter of the tent. The sunlight was dazzling, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. She shaded her face with her rolled-up program.

  Finney Solomon appeared out of the bright light, glancing nervously over his shoulder. He was wearing his navy blazer, an open-collared white shirt, and khaki slacks, and looked quite collegiate except for his expression, which was one of extreme distress. “Oh, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  “Are you all right?” Victoria asked.

  “Fine, fine.” He ran a hand over his crisply cut hair.

  “Here’s Orion,” said Victoria.

  “Gotta say hello to someone,” said Finney, leaving.

  Before he moved off, Victoria asked, “Have you seen Dorothy Roche?”

  “She’s around somewhere,” he said, and dodged away.

  Orion sauntered after him.

  Victoria passed a familiar-looking man, short with black hair and bright blue eyes. After she’d gone a few steps she recalled who he was. Roger Paulson, the automobile man from Chappaquiddick. She turned back.

  “Mr. Paulson? Victoria Trumbull.”

  He started as though he’d been thinking about something entirely different from the scene around him. “Yes, of course, Mrs. Trumbull. I know your name, certainly, and your reputation. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too, Mr. Pauls
on.”

  “Please, Roger.” He was squinting up at her, facing directly into the sun. Victoria moved to one side so he was partly shaded.

  “Some interesting items,” she said, tapping her program on her palm. “Will you be bidding on any of them?”

  “Probably.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and rocked onto the toes of his boots, making him, for a moment, an inch taller. “I like to support the auction.”

  “That drill rig item must be of special interest to you.” Victoria leaned on her stick to make herself a bit closer to his height.

  He frowned. “What makes you say that?”

  “Weren’t you an associate of Angelo Vulpone’s?”

  His frown deepened. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Ditch Witch drill seems to be a key to the success of the fiber-optics project Angelo planned to invest in.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with me.” He rocked back onto his toes again.

  “Don’t you plan to invest in the project?”

  “Rumor. Pure rumor, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  “I understood you and Angelo were partners.”

  “I’ve had nothing to do with that man for years, Mrs. Trumbull. He’s dead now. Can’t say I’m sorry.” He glanced in the direction he’d been looking when Victoria first saw him. “I see someone I need to talk to. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Trumbull.” With that, he moved on, and Victoria watched him disappear into the crowd.

  “Mrs. Trumbull! Victoria!”

  Victoria recognized the scent and turned, and there was the object of her search, Dorothy Roche, weaving toward her. If Dorothy hadn’t called out, Victoria would not have recognized her. Her face was partly hidden by a wide-brimmed garden party hat wreathed with purple and blue artificial flowers. Below the hat, her face was almost totally hidden by large sunglasses. Victoria could see that Dorothy’s nose was swollen. Her skin below the glasses was a patchy black, edged in greenish yellow. A coating of pink paste, instead of hiding the damage, emphasized it.

  Victoria couldn’t help asking, “What happened?”

  “The air bag in my car went off when I bumped into something, really just a gentle bump.” When Dorothy spoke Victoria got the strong impression that Dorothy had been drinking. “They’re terribly dangerous. Air bags.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Victoria turned away from the ruined face and smell of perfume mixed with semimetabolized liquor. “Such an imaginative item you’ve contributed. That’s bound to be a big moneymaker for the auction.”

  “I didn’t offer it. I want to keep a low profile, and then that foolish naive Orion Nanopoulos came up with the bright idea. I can’t go through with it. I can’t!”

  “It means a great deal to the Outstretched Palm Fund.”

  Dorothy smiled unconvincingly and looked away from Victoria, off to her right. She put her hands up to her face, gasped, and turned away. “Sorry, I’ve got to see someone.” She hurried off in the opposite direction from whatever it was that had startled her.

  Victoria leaned on her stick again and looked around to see who or what had upset Dorothy. A heavyset man wearing a rumpled, pin-striped blue suit was mopping his forehead with a handkerchief while he argued with an attractive woman who was quite a bit taller than he was. The woman was probably in her early fifties with a trim figure. Her dark hair was streaked with wings of white that no beautician could have conjured up, and she wore it pulled back in a chignon that looked quite stylish. She wore a simple white linen dress, as yet unwrinkled, and an extraordinary necklace set with green stones.

  Victoria casually strolled over to the couple. “Lovely afternoon for the auction, isn’t it.” She interrupted the man’s angry flow of words.

  The woman turned away from the man, and smiled. “Delightful. Have you attended this auction before?”

  “This is my first time,” said Victoria.

  The man scowled. He stuffed his handkerchief into his suit coat pocket and smoothed his tie.

  “My first time, too,” said the woman. “In fact, this is my first visit to Martha’s Vineyard. Have you spent much time on the Island?”

  “I live here,” said Victoria. “I was born here.”

  “How fortunate you are.” The woman extended a slim hand. “My name is Maria Rosa Vulpone.”

  The man coughed, covering his mouth with a fist, then stuck both hands in his suit coat pockets.

  Victoria took the woman’s delicate hand in hers. “I’m Victoria Trumbull.”

  “Mrs. Trumbull! Just this morning I was reading your column in the newspaper. What a pleasure to meet you.” She turned to the man. “This is my husband, Basilio.”

  The man removed a hand from one pocket and offered it to Victoria, a fat, soft, white hand.

  “Your name, Vulpone, is familiar to me,” Victoria said to Basilio. “Was it your brother, Angelo…?”

  Basilio crossed himself with his free hand and glanced heavenward. “My older brother, bless him.”

  “My condolences. This must be a difficult time for you. It’s been, what, five weeks?”

  Maria Rosa said, “Basilio needed distraction from the tragedy of his loss.”

  Basilio pursed his lips.

  “Quite understandable,” said Victoria. “What brings you to the Island?” She addressed both of the Vulpones. “Besides the auction, that is.”

  Basilio fished a pair of designer sunglasses from his breast pocket and covered his eyes with them.

  Maria Rosa answered with an elegant touch of her Italian accent. “My husband is here on business, aren’t you, Basilio?”

  Basilio grunted. Victoria couldn’t see his eyes. “Do I understand you’re in the television business, Mr. Vulpone?”

  Again, Maria Rosa answered. “My husband is the director of Triple V Cable.”

  “Do you have plans for a television show on Martha’s Vineyard?”

  Basilio said, “Could be.” He took his wife’s arm. “‘Scuse us, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  With that, he led his smiling wife away.

  Victoria felt someone behind her and turned to see Orion. “Shall we take our seats, Victoria?”

  “I gather you’ve found a way to deal with Finney.”

  “A start,” said Orion.

  As they ducked back under the tent flap and strolled down the center aisle toward their seats, Orion asked, “Who were those two?”

  “None other than Basilio and Maria Rosa Vulpone.”

  “The wife?”

  Victoria smiled. “I believe she’s shaped up.”

  “I guess so.”

  They greeted people around them and took their seats.

  Trip Barnes, the auctioneer, started off with banter that warmed up the crowd and led to spirited bidding. The more outrageous Trip’s comments, the higher the bids went. A watercolor by a well-known Island artist started at five hundred dollars and sold for five thousand. A day of fishing with a local boater went for three thousand. Breakfast for eight prepared by a local celebrity vocalist and accompanied by her singing went for eleven thousand.

  Bill Williams’s offer of a seat in the press box at a Giants game went, to Maria Rosa, for six thousand.

  Small items such as autographed books, costume jewelry, a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast, and a floral arrangement went for vast sums of money.

  By four o’clock the auction had raised more than three hundred thousand dollars, and the ride on the Ditch Witch drill rig was next, the last item to be offered.

  Trip beckoned to a high school student dressed in the purple uniform of the Regional High School band and he climbed the several steps to the stage. The kid, lanky, with his spiky hair dyed purple to match his uniform, carried a snare drum on a harness around his shoulders and waist. At Trip’s signal he began a drumroll that went on for a full minute.

  Once he had the attention of the crowd, Trip held up both arms. The kid lifted his drumsticks.

  “Our final item, ladies and gentlemen, the item you’ve been waiting fo
r, the item that may never again be offered to the public, the item that, if you win, your grandchildren will tell their grandchildren about is…” He lowered his arms and the drumroll started up again for a few seconds and stopped.

  “… fabulous, unique. A ride from the Yacht Club up North Water Street aboard a Ditch Witch horizontal directional drilling unit, a fantastic machine, to a fabled captain’s house where you will play host to a luncheon for fifty—did I say fifty? Yes, ladies and gentlemen—fifty people of your choice. Friends, business associates, people you want to impress, people you can’t stand…”

  Laughter.

  “And the name of the drill rig, alone, ladies and gentlemen, is worth emptying your bank accounts for. We begin the bid at five thousand. Do I hear five thousand, five thousand?” He pointed. “Six thousand, six thousand?” He pointed. “Seven, give me a seven.” He pointed.

  Roger Paulson nodded.

  “Eight thousand, eight?”

  The bidding went on up until only three people were bidding, up to ten, twelve, and slowed. Paulson dropped out. Two people were still bidding.

  “Thirteen thousand, ladies and gentlemen. The gentleman in the blue suit, do I hear thirteen? Yes. The lady with the emerald necklace, want to go for fourteen? Yes.” He pointed. “Sir, fifteen? Yes. Ma’am, sixteen? Yes, thank you, ma’am. Sir, you can’t let some young slip of a thing outbid you, do I hear seventeen? Yes.” Pointing. “Ma’am, you don’t want that fat slob to outbid you.”

  Laughter.

  “Eighteen, do I hear eighteen, ma’am? Stand up for your rights. Eighteen, eighteen. Thank you.”

  “Nineteen!” shouted Basilio.

  “Twenty!” cried Maria Rosa.

  “Twenty-one, you bitch!” shouted Basilio.

  “Sir, sir, please!” called out Trip.

  “Twenty-two,” cried Maria Rosa.

  “Twenty-three,” shouted Basilio.

  Trip looked from one to the other and shrugged at the audience.

  The high school drummer waited with drumsticks lifted.

  “Twenty-four!”

  “Twenty-five!”