Two men stood on the wide front step. Both wore wraparound sunglasses, dark suits, white shirts, and ties, and, except for a difference in height, could have been an artifact of double vision. Definitely not Islanders, thought Casey. Missionaries, perhaps. Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses?
“We’re looking for a Finney Solomon,” said the shorter of the two men.
The mob, thought Casey. Come to eliminate Finney Solomon. Victoria was right. The mob would kill openly, gun down the victim in front of friends and family.
“Please tell me who you are,” said Casey.
Both produced black leather folders from inside jacket pockets and flipped them open.
“Oh,” said Casey, examining their credentials. She suddenly felt uncomfortable out of uniform. “I’m the West Tisbury police chief. How can I help?”
“Solomon here?” asked the taller of the two.
“I believe he still is. What’s he done?”
The shorter man lifted his glasses to his forehead. “Like to see your ID, ma’am.”
“I don’t have it with me,” said Casey.
“Right. Where is he?”
Victoria had arisen from her chair. “Can I help you?” She studied the suits and ties. “Thank you for coming, but I’m active in my own church.”
“Feebs,” said Casey, straightening her skirt. “Federal agents. FBI.”
“We’re looking for Finney Solomon,” the shorter man repeated, again producing his leather folder.
“Ah,” said Victoria. “I believe he’s in the library.”
“Know what he looks like?” asked Casey, feeling disrespected.
“We do,” said the shorter man. “Excuse me.” He elbowed his way past two poets, who were blocking the door.
Finney looked up from the glass of wine he was pouring.
“Finney Solomon?” asked the shorter man.
Both flipped open their folders and the gold badges shone in the afternoon light.
Finney glanced around. Chatting poets blocked his way out in both directions.
“We have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Who, me?” said Finney. “What for?”
The taller man answered. “Credit fraud.”
* * *
The next morning, Victoria called Roger Paulson and came right to the point. “I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Paulson. We didn’t get much of a chance yesterday.”
“Roger’s the name.”
“Can you come to my house right now?”
“Be a pleasure.” He laughed. “But it’ll take me almost an hour to get there from Chappy, can you wait?”
“I’ll make lunch.”
In less than an hour, Victoria saw his car drive up. They went into the cookroom and Victoria sat with her back to the window.
“You know a great deal more than you’re willing to say, don’t you?” Victoria said.
“True.”
“My guess is that you know who the killer is, and it’s not you.”
“Possibly.”
“Were you at the ball field the night Angelo was killed?”
“Maybe.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“So you can write another poem?”
Victoria smiled. “It’s already been written. The part you didn’t hear.” She handed a copy of the poem to him.
He paged through it. “Right on top of things, aren’t you, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“Victoria.”
“I assume you’re not wired?”
“I have Wi-Fi,” said Victoria.
“That’s okay, then.” He sat back and neither of them spoke for a long time. Finally, he continued. “I called Angelo months ago, as soon as I heard about Orion Nanopoulos and his fiber-optics cable. I told Angelo I was ready to make peace. Bury the hatchet. Water over the dam. I’m as rich as I want to be, I told him, live where I want to live, and have a business I’m proud of. Even said I’d let the wife go.” Paulson stopped there and glanced out the window behind Victoria. The village was almost hidden by trees. “I told him about the project, and suggested we could team up again.”
“Wasn’t he skeptical?”
“Certainly he was. But he was a greedy, unscrupulous man. He checked out Nanopoulos and his prospectus, and decided it was, as he said, a gold mine.”
“He was willing to work with you?”
Paulson laughed. “Does a leopard change its spots?”
“Did you plan to kill him?”
“You’re getting ahead of my story, Victoria, but yes. I planned to kill him. I’d waited thirty years for the right time and place.”
The guinea fowl chucked and clattered in the drive. Crows called and answered. Victoria took a deep breath.
Paulson went on. “He saw this as an opportunity to kill me, too. I’d been a thorn festering in his flesh for every one of those thirty years. He saw this as the chance to lure me to a remote spot and…” He slashed his hand through the air. “I knew Nanopoulos was laying cable in the trench. I called Angelo, suggested he charter a plane; I’d pick him up at general aviation, and we could have supper together. Check the place out after.”
“Wasn’t he suspicious?”
“Of course he was. But this was what he’d been waiting for. Remote is what we both wanted. I trusted him as much as he trusted me. Zilch. Zero. I knew he’d have backup near at hand, and he knew I would, too.”
Victoria ran her hand through her hair. “A duel. An old time shoot-out. And your seconds?”
“Two of my dealers from western Mass. Armed.”
“Did they know you planned to kill Angelo?”
“Yes.”
“And you trusted them?”
“Yes. Absolutely. On the other hand, he was ruthless, and couldn’t trust anyone but his two sons.”
“And Angelo’s backup?” She didn’t want to ask, but did. “His sons?”
“Good god, no. Not his precious sons. They were brought up to be law-abiding, decent human beings.”
“Their mother’s influence?”
“Yes and no. Angelo’s family was sacred to him.”
“I’m not sure I understand how things worked out. You met Angelo at the airport?”
“I went to the airport, made sure I was plenty early. He was already there in the general aviation waiting room. Said his plane was early. I found out later someone met him earlier, drove him to the ball field, where he spoke to the town guy, then returned him to the airport. One of his backup men, I reckon.”
“And his other backup people?”
“Strictly pros. Never saw them, he never saw mine.”
“Didn’t you check for weapons?”
“Hardly. I assumed he was carrying. He probably assumed the same.”
“Go on.”
“We left the airport, had dinner in Vineyard Haven, then drove to the ball field. There was enough light to see where we were going and it was beginning to rain, which suited us both. My guys were lying on their bellies, rifles aimed at Angelo. His? I don’t know. We reached the end of the trench. Raining hard. You could cut the tension. Who was going to move first, and what would that first move be. You’re right, it was like High Noon.”
Victoria shivered.
“Suddenly, a woman screamed. Startled the hell out of us both. Angelo turned. I heard a shot. He fell. I cleaned out his pockets, rolled him into the trench, and left.”
“And the person who shot him? Was it the woman?”
“Never saw her. In the time it took me to roll Angelo into the ditch, she vanished.”
“Could you identify her by her scream?”
“I doubt it.”
“Could it have been the false Dorothy Roche?”
“Possibly.”
“She knew Angelo, didn’t she?”
“She was his mistress for a couple of years. He promised to support her for life. When his wife threatened to leave and take the boys, he ditched her with nothing.”
“And you’re covering for her.”
“She may be facing another murder charge. Basilio tracked her car from Tris Waverley’s place to where he was killed that day. She probably told Tris she wanted him to see the Ditch Witch, then suggested he sit in the old truck and she’d take a picture of him for his sister, a shot over his shoulder showing the dead skunk. She got behind him. A twist of a scarf around his throat.”
“Stupid of her. She’d never have been convicted of Angelo’s murder. I felt sorry for her. She was powerless against Angelo and his brother, and had been screwed by both of them.” Paulson stopped abruptly. “I wonder if Basilio was tracking her that far back.”
“That would help clear you. What happened to her gun?”
“We live on a small Island in the middle of a large ocean, Victoria. A simple matter to rid oneself of a gun.”
“I suppose Tris Waverley knew too much. She’d killed once. A second killing was easier.”
CHAPTER 42
“Orion, were you here when the FBI agents came for Finney Solomon on the day of my book launch?” asked Victoria.
“FBI agents,” repeated Orion with a pleasant smile. He lifted his tea bag out of his mug and dropped it into the compost bucket. “Interesting.”
He moved away from the kitchen sink. Victoria rinsed the breakfast dishes and began to load the dishwasher. “You had something to do with the appearance of the FBI, didn’t you?”
“Moi?” said Orion, laying his hand on his chest.
“After shaming him in front of people he was trying to impress and ordering the FBI to haul him away in chains…”
“Ordering the FBI?” said Orion. “In chains!”
“Metaphorically speaking. I believe our young Mozart of money may have gotten the message.”
Victoria loaded the last dish and was about to start the dishwasher when Primo and Umberto showed up.
“We’d like to talk to Mr. Nanopoulos,” said Primo.
“You’re welcome to talk in the library,” said Victoria. “I need to work on my column.”
“We’d like you to hear this, too, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Primo. “Your kitchen is a fine place to do business.”
“An excellent place,” said Umberto.
Victoria dried her hands and hung the towel on the wooden rack, then sat at the table. The three joined her.
Umberto gestured with his hands, palms up toward his brother, indicating that Primo should speak.
“As you know, our father—bless him…”
“Bless him,” echoed Umberto, crossing himself.
Primo continued, “… was an astute businessman.”
Orion folded his arms.
“As you know, our father originally planned to invest eight million in your project, Mr. Nanopoulos, then changed his mind for some reason and decided not to invest.”
Sean’s red truck turned into the pasture. The passenger door opened and Sandy bounced out holding the bee smoker. Victoria folded her hands in her lap.
“Umberto and I are executors of our father’s estate, and we intended to carry out his wishes.”
“We had every intention of doing so,” said Umberto.
Orion stirred his tea, studying the eddies and swirls, watching the rising steam.
“However.” Primo held up a hand. “However, we’ve studied your operation and find that we don’t agree with our father’s last decision.”
Far away in the west pasture, Sean’s white suit billowed in the wind.
“We have some paperwork here,” said Umberto, opening his attaché case and shuffling through various pages until he found three paper-clipped documents. “If you’d sign all three, Primo and I will also sign, and if you, Mrs. Trumbull, would witness our signatures?”
Victoria felt mildly disappointed. Any investment would help, but the eight million had been only a third of what Orion needed, and now it looked as though Orion wouldn’t get even that much. She thought how her perspective had changed. Eight million dollars. A fortune. And here she was, thinking eight million wasn’t enough.
Orion riffled through the papers. He sat back and tossed his pen onto the table. He looked up, first at Umberto, then Primo. He looked down at the papers again.
Victoria knew this was no time to ask questions. In the distance she could see smoke rising near the beehives.
“You’re serious,” said Orion.
“Yes, sir,” said Primo.
“You’re not asking for a share in the company?”
“We have no experience in running a project like yours. Our father trained us to delegate and he had great confidence in you.”
“Twenty-four million,” murmured Orion. “The entire projected cost.”
“You can see,” said Umberto, pointing to a section in the document, “the money is paid out only as you complete each goal that’s been set out.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Orion.
“We believe this is mutually beneficial,” said Primo. “Our own research confirms our father’s original opinion. However, we believe he was overly cautious in the beginning, and mistaken in the end.”
Victoria got up from the table. “This calls for a fresh cup of tea.”
OTHER MARTHA’S VINEYARD MYSTERIES
Touch-Me-Not
Death and Honesty
Shooting Star
Indian Pipes
The Paperwhite Narcissus
Jack in the Pulpit
The Cemetery Yew
The Cranefly Orchid Murders
Deadly Nightshade
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
THE BEE BALM MURDERS. Copyright © 2011 by Cynthia Riggs. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Riggs, Cynthia.
The bee balm murders : a Martha’s Vineyard mystery / Cynthia Riggs.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Thomas Dunne book.”
ISBN 978-0-312-58179-4
1. Trumbull, Victoria (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—Fiction. 3. Martha’s Vineyard (Mass.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.I394B44 2011
813'.6—dc22
2011001269
First Edition: May 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-7735-7
First Minotaur Books eBook Edition: April 2011
The Bee Balm Murders Page 26
