Indian Pipes (10 page)

“Lord, don’t look, Victoria!” Casey shouted.

Victoria heard a long drawn-out squeal of tires skidding and the crunch of metal. A car horn blared and continued to blare. Someone screamed. A cloud of dust rose up in front of the bakery. Casey halted the Bronco in the middle of the road, almost blocking it, and the siren wound down to a whimper, then died. Rotating lights flashed across tree trunks to one side.

“Man the radio, Victoria.” The chief raced to where a knot of bakery customers was gathering. The car horn continued to blare.

One of the motorcycles had rammed into a red Volvo that was pulling out of the bakeshop parking area. The biker was lying in the road, his motorcycle on top of him, its front wheel twisted and spinning eccentrically. His leg was pinned under the machine, and he seemed to be unconscious. His bare shoulders were sanded down to raw flesh. His helmet had been flung to the side of the road. From where she sat, Victoria saw that he was not young, probably midfifties,
with thick silvery hair cut nicely. Blood seeped out of his nose and the corner of his mouth, staining his mustache and what looked like a two-day growth of beard.

Casey cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled to Victoria, “Get on the radio and call for the ambulance.” She turned to the silent crowd. “Someone cut off that car horn!”

Victoria went carefully through the list of radio procedures and called the dispatcher.

“We’ll be there in five minutes,” the dispatcher said. “Stand by the radio, Mrs. Trumbull, in case we need you.”

The Tisbury police cruiser arrived at the scene, herding the four lead motorcycles it had turned back. Shortly after, the Chilmark cruiser pulled to the side of North Road with its blue lights flashing.

Casey knelt next to the biker and listened for his breathing. His companions were still astride their motorcycles. “You!” Casey pointed to them. “Lift the bike off of him. Hurry up.” As they rushed to obey, Casey said, “Gently. Watch how you lift. His leg may be caught.”

The Tri-Town Ambulance came up behind the Bronco, passed around it, and stopped near the bakery. Within another five minutes, the EMTs had strapped the biker onto a stretcher, and the ambulance took off.

When it was all over and Casey had seen the injured man hustled off to the hospital, had ticketed the bikers, and had collected statements from witnesses, she checked the damage to the red Volvo— surprisingly not much. She rejoined Victoria and together they filled out paperwork.

“What are they thinking when they hot-shot like that?” Casey muttered. “Fortunately, that biker wasn’t killed, but he could have been. Or he could have killed a kid or an old lady or someone’s dog.”

“Maybe they learned a lesson.”

“I doubt it.” Casey started up the Bronco, turned around in the intersection, and headed toward Mrs. Summerville’s to take care of her complaint about bikers camping in her back pasture.

“How long will you be on-Island, Dojan?” Obed VanDyke was loading lobster pots onto his boat, which was tied up at the commercial dock in Menemsha. Dojan was helping him.

“Not long enough,” Dojan replied, shaking his head so the broken end of the osprey feather bobbed in his hair.

“What are you telling them in Washington about the casino?” Obed took a trap Dojan handed down to him and stacked it with the ones already on his boat. The wooden slats of the lobster pots cast striped shadows on the deck.

“An obscenity!” Dojan stopped lifting. “What would our grandmothers think? Are we a noble people so we can suck money from the weak the way leeches suck blood?”

“The chief brought you back to get federal help with the permits.” Obed stood in the cockpit of his boat in his yellow oilskin trousers, his rubber boots, and a white undershirt. He set his fists on his hips.

“I have no choice.” Dojan held out his hands, palms up.

“The chief says we’re supposed to keep our minds open,” Obed said, getting back to his pots.

“Gambling is a sickness. The devils who build gambling casinos cause sickness.”

“I agree.” Obed reached up. “Hand me down another one.”

“I can play Burkhardt’s trick.” Dojan swung a pot down to Obed. “Go by the rules. One permit every six months.”

“And get yourself killed like Burkhardt?” Obed lined up the lobster pot Dojan had handed him with the others, a cargo of a dozen traps.

“What bait you using?” Dojan asked.

“Fish heads.” Obed took the lid off a barrel on deck, and the aroma wafted up to Dojan.

“Good, good.” Dojan sniffed appreciatively. “Ripe.”

“You know Hiram’s missing, don’t you?” Obed replaced the lid of the bait barrel.

“Saw him day before yesterday at Mrs. Trumbull’s.”

“He’s disappeared. His van’s gone.”

Dojan shrugged and rolled his eyes.

“You knew he was first to reach Burkhardt, didn’t you?”

“I heard.” Dojan swung down another pot.

“Hiram was the first to reach him. But your friend, the old lady, found him. Burkhardt was still alive, she says.” Obed stopped, put both hands on his back, and stood up straight. “Patience is right.
How many more years can I do this? I’m not yet thirty, and already I’m an old man.”

“You go to Washington, old man, and I’ll fish your lobster traps.” Dojan grinned his gap-toothed grin. “Look at me.” He held out his arms. “Pale.”

Obed examined them. “Yeah.” He squinted. “I can see now it says, ‘I Love Mindy.’ “

Dojan twisted his neck to look at the tattoo on his left shoulder. “That is an eagle with a serpent.” He slung another pot down to Obed who caught it and stacked it.

“Excuse me, sir.” A middle-aged woman with a little-girl voice had stopped on the dock and was addressing Dojan. “Are you a Native American?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Obed shouted up from his boat. “He surely is, ma’am. He don’t speak no English.”

Dojan stared at Obed.

“Will he let me take his picture?” the woman asked Obed, bringing out a disposable camera from a large plastic bag she was holding.

Dojan started to say something. Obed interrupted quickly. “He says, ma’am, if you take his picture, you will steal his soul. However, a small offering, say ten dollars, ma’am, will assuage his gods.”

“Oh!” said the woman. “May I give the money to you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Obed held out his hand. Dojan glared at both of them. The woman snapped his picture. Dojan growled. The woman turned quickly and scurried down the dock, winding the film as she went.

“I’ll split it with you.” Obed held up the ten-dollar bill. “We got a gold mine here, Dojan, you and me.”

Obed caught the pot before it hit the deck.

“You planning on coming out with me today to set traps?” Obed said conversationally.

Dojan threw another pot.

“We can talk about casino plans.”

“You stink as bad as the rest,” Dojan said, and leaped from the dock onto the boat deck.
Patience was in her office at Tribal Headquarters when her assistant Peter Little came in and, without invitation, sat in the canvas director’s chair in front of her desk. He leaned forward and snapped his fingers at the metal nameplate inscribed
PATIENCE VANDYKE, TRIBAL CHAIRMAN.

“What is it now, Peter? I can’t be disturbed. I’ve got to get this application out immediately.” She tapped her pen on her desk. One wall of her office had framed crayon drawings of Aquinnah scenes by children of the tribe. One wall was a window that looked out on the fields of russet grass and low bushes behind the tribal building. One wall had a huge photograph of the Gay Head cliffs, and beside the photograph was the door. The fourth wall was covered with framed diplomas and certificates of appreciation and photographs of Patience posing with dignitaries, a state senator, the tribe’s storyteller.

“With Burkhardt dead, you have some breathing space.” Peter smoothed his hair and slumped in the chair. He crossed his legs and gazed at the diplomas on her wall.

“Quite the contrary,” said Patience. “With Burkhardt dead, I must act quickly.”

“It’s obvious someone killed him, isn’t it?” Peter smiled, a onesided, thin-lipped smile.

“No, it’s not obvious. I need to get back to work, Peter.” Patience looked down at the papers in front of her and thumbed through them. “Whoever the governor appoints might be worse than Burkhardt. We have only a few days to get these out.”

“Certificate of appreciation from the senior center,” Peter murmured, looking at the framed documents on the wall. “What on earth did you do to earn that, Patience? Help Mrs. Trumbull cross the road?”

She flushed. “Peter, I’m running out of time.”

“Back to the killing, because someone did kill him.” Peter slumped still farther in the chair until his neck rested on the canvas back. “Why is Dojan exiled to Washington? Because he’s a killer, that’s why. Exiled because the tribe has sovereign nation status, and the U.S. law can’t touch him. Washington’s his punishment. Chief Hawkbill sends for Dojan. Dojan arrives. Burkhardt is killed.” Peter
lifted his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “Voilà! One problem taken care of neatly.” He smiled again. “And traditionally, I might add. Clobbered on the head by a crazed Indian. Nice touch would have been to scalp him.”

Patience stood. “Get out of my office, Peter. I don’t like your talk. I need those grant applications. Right away. Bring them to me in the next hour. Filled out.” She pointed toward the door. “Get out. And shut the door behind you.”

C
HAPTER
12

It was still early afternoon when Victoria answered the knock on her kitchen door. A girl with a mass of curly blond hair stood there. She was several inches shorter than Victoria, and was wearing ironed jeans and a bright blue shirt the color of her eyes.

“Are you Mrs. Trumbull?” She held out a slim hand with rings on each finger. “I’m Linda, Jube Burkhardt’s niece.”

The girl’s voice was soft and high.

“Please come in,” Victoria said. “I’m so sorry about your uncle. Let me fix you a cup of tea.”

“Thank you.”

As she shut the door behind the girl, Victoria caught a strong whiff of patchouli. She didn’t like perfume, especially patchouli, which made her think someone was covering up the smell of marijuana. She sneezed.

“Bless you,” said Linda.

“Thank you.” Victoria wrinkled her nose for the next sneeze. She tore a paper towel from the roll over the sink.

Linda looked around the kitchen with interest while Victoria filled the teakettle and put it on the stove.

“I just love your house, Mrs. Trumbull,” she said.

Victoria started to pick up the tray with the teacups, but felt another sneeze coming on.

“I hope you’re not catching cold?” Linda asked.

Victoria shook her head and sneezed again. “I’m afraid it’s your perfume.”

“I’m so sorry! I’ll keep my distance.” Linda backed up a step. “May I carry that into the other room?”

“Thank you.” Once they were seated in the cookroom, Victoria said, “Your uncle’s death must be a shock to you. His only relatives,
as I recall, are your mother and you two girls.” She poured tea and passed a cup and saucer to Linda.

“I wasn’t really close to him.”

“Sugar?”

“No thanks, no sugar.”

“Your mother was younger than your uncle, wasn’t she?”

“More than ten years,” said Linda. “Uncle Jube was in his late fifties. My mother was only forty-five when she died two years ago.”

Victoria waited for the girl to continue.

Linda cleared her throat and looked down into her cup. “You must wonder what I’m doing here, Mrs. Trumbull.”

“I assume it has to do with your uncle.”

Linda nodded. “My sister and I have to settle Uncle Jube’s affairs. She’s on-Island for the motorcycle rally, but I don’t know where to reach her.”

“Oh?” Victoria was noncommittal.

“I thought of staying at Uncle Jube’s house.”

Victoria said “Oh” again.

“I guess you’ve seen it?”

Victoria nodded.

“I don’t understand how he could have lived that way.”

“It was his own mess. That makes a difference. Where do you plan to stay?”

“The police sergeant, Junior Norton?”

“Yes?” said Victoria.

“He said you sometimes rent rooms?”

“Occasionally.”

“Would you consider renting one to me for a week or two? I can pay. I simply can’t stay in my uncle’s house.”

Victoria shifted in her chair and thought of patchouli permeating the pillows in her spare room. Then she thought of Jube Burkhardt’s house and smiled at the girl. “I’d be glad to rent you a room for as long as you need it.”

“Thank you so much.” Linda looked up and smiled. “I won’t wear perfume, Mrs. Trumbull, honest. Okay if I bring my things in?”

“As long as you’re not like your uncle,” Victoria said, and then
felt bad about her small unfunny joke. But the girl laughed before she became serious again.

“I guess someone has to clean up that place. That means me, unless we can find Harley?”

“You can pay a cleaning company to take care of it, I’m sure. They know what to keep and what to throw out. If it were me, I’d be tempted to read everything, all those magazines and newspapers.”

“I’m not sure it’s worth cleaning up. The house smells awful and it’s in terrible condition.” The girl got up from the table and carried the cups and saucers to the sink.

“It’s a lovely old house,” said Victoria, defending it. “Once it’s cleaned up and painted you’ll be pleasantly surprised. You can rent it during the summer to pay for repairs and taxes.”

Linda shrugged and went out to her car, a blue Ford. When she returned, Victoria showed her into the downstairs bedroom, the room Victoria herself preferred in winter, when the west wind made her unheated upstairs bedroom too chilly.

“This is neat,” Linda said. “I’ve never seen so many doors in a house. Where does this go?”

“Into the library,” said Victoria. “Your uncle’s house is like mine. Each room has at least two doors. For ventilation and in case of fire.”

Linda hung up her garment bag in the small closet next to the fireplace and set her suitcase on the floor.

“I’ll get towels,” Victoria said. “The bathroom is off the cookroom, the door on the left.”