Indian Pipes (11 page)

Linda followed Victoria to the kitchen door. “I suppose the police will locate my sister?”

“I believe they’ve already contacted the man who organized the rally.”

“Harley’s going to love that. She and the police don’t get along real well.”

“I hear she didn’t get along with your uncle, either.”

“Nobody got along with my uncle.”

“He apparently thought highly of you.” Victoria didn’t want to pry, but she was curious to know what was going to happen to Jube Burkhardt’s eighteen-million-dollar property.

“Harley was his pet until she got into motorcycles, you know? He hated them. I think she did it just to spite him.”

“Why did your uncle feel that way?”

Linda lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I heard it was something from when he was a kid.”

While Victoria was getting towels from the linen closet, Elizabeth came home. She was still wearing her harbor uniform, tan shorts and a white short-sleeved shirt.

“What a day!” She held out her hand to Linda, who was standing beside the refrigerator. “I’m Elizabeth.”

Linda introduced herself.

“I’m sorry about your uncle.”

“Thanks. I guess I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.”

“If there’s anything we can do…,” Elizabeth said.

Victoria appeared with towels and soap. “Linda’s going to stay with us until she gets things sorted out.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “That might take a while. At least this house is tidier than your uncle’s.”

Linda smiled. “That’s for sure.”

Victoria gave Linda the towels. “Your uncle had a reputation for being difficult.”

Linda shrugged. “He held grudges forever. Harley and I had to be careful around him.” Linda spoke rapidly and her face was flushed. “Uncle Jube always bragged that he’d get even with whoever, no matter how long it took.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Nice guy,” she said.

Dojan had returned from the morning of setting lobster pots with Obed. His forehead, nose, and arms were sunburned bright red. He carried a bucket of lobsters into the chief’s office at Tribal Headquarters and plunked it down next to the desk. The chief looked up from his paperwork.

“Is this a bad time?” Dojan asked.

“If those lobsters are for me, it’s not a bad time.”

Dojan nodded.

“I’m filling out forms for a federal grant, Dojan. I’m glad to be interrupted.”
The chief pushed the papers to one side of his desk, and indicated the chair next to him. “Sit.” He looked into the bucket. In it were four lobsters partially covered with seaweed, claws held together with yellow rubber bands.

“You support a casino.” Dojan stared at the old man. “You want our people to gamble.” He leaned over the chief’s desk. “A white man’s sickness.” He slapped the desk and the chief’s pen bounced and rolled off onto the floor. The chief leaned over and picked it up.

“No, Dojan. I am not promoting a casino. Gambling is poison. Our people have always gambled, and it has always been poison.”

“Why, then?” Dojan jabbed a dirty finger with its raggedly gnawed nail at the application forms on the desk.

“Because our tribe must decide for itself. I visited a casino the other day, I went on the
Pequot,
that boat that takes people directly to the gambling. It takes them cheaply and quickly, so they can throw money at the gaming machines happily. The casino has good food, cheap. Pretty Native American girls, handsome Native American boys, run the games and the machines. The pretty girls and handsome boys make it seem like good clean fun. The young people smile at the foolish old people who want something for nothing. Perhaps it is all right. A nice cruise, good cheap food, a day’s entertainment. All they have lost is money. The casino? It looks like a forest with plastic bears, deer, and beaver. You hear falling water. It’s all a chimera.”

“Why, then, why?” Dojan asked, slapping the desk.

“Who am I to dictate right and wrong to the tribe?”

“You are the chief, our leader.”

“Tribal members are not looking beyond money or glitter. Patience says, ‘a casino means jobs for our young people,’ Peter says, ‘money for education and housing.’ “

“Gambling money is dirty!”

The chief lifted his shoulders. “Sit, Dojan. Sit.” He leaned forward at his desk, his hands clasped, and peered at Dojan through his thick glasses. “Dojan, these are the facts of life. Sit. And listen to me.”

Dojan glowered at him, and when the chief continued to stare back, he dropped his gaze and sat where the chief had told him to sit.

“A casino means more money than any of us has ever dreamed
about.” The chief held up a hand. “Don’t interrupt. Hear me, Dojan. Patience wants a casino on the Island. Peter wants a casino ship. He is working behind her back. Patience wants to think he is working with her. He’s not.”

Dojan shifted impatiently.

“Listen to everything I have to say, Dojan. I need you to work with me, but you must do it my way.”

Dojan focused his eyes on the chief.

“Peter wants a casino ship. Gamblers will go out to it by launch, some from the Island, some from the mainland. Peter is politically astute. A ship will not be the threat to Islanders that a six-story building would be. Patience does not agree with him, and she is the boss.”

Dojan started to say something.

The chief spread his hand on his chest. “I’m not the boss, Dojan. My position is ceremonial, like the queen of England’s. I carry no weight except for my years. And…” He patted his stomach. “My years have given me wisdom and a craftiness that Patience and Peter do not suspect.”

Dojan stared out of the chief’s window. While Patience’s office was at the back of the building with no ocean view, the chief’s was in a front corner where he had a constantly changing vista of sea, sky, and cliffs.

“Concentrate on what I say, Dojan. Patience hopes to get government funding, so that any resulting casino would be controlled by the tribe. She’s right. Should a casino be built, we do not want private interests as partners, which is what will happen if private money is involved.”

“What private money?” Dojan asked.

“Ah, Dojan, you would not believe how much money is out there in the hands of people who do not care about the tribe. Peter accused Mr. Burkhardt of taking bribes. Perhaps he was. Was he killed by private money? I don’t know. Was he killed by a member of the tribe?” The chief shrugged. “He was not a popular man. Had he ruffled the feathers of the motorcycle people, unrelated to the casino? A possibility. Was there a family feud of some kind? Who knows.”

“What do you want of me?”

“I want you to be careful, first.” The chief waited until Dojan settled
back in the chair. “Peter is telling Patience you killed Mr. Burkhardt.”

Dojan pushed himself out of his chair. “I did not!”

“Of course you did not. I sent you to Washington as penance for killing that man. You won’t kill again. You are not a killer. Washington will cool that blood of yours. You will stay there until I tell you to come home.”

Dojan gave the chief a desolate look.

“It’s better than prison, Dojan. Believe me.” The chief turned slightly so he could look out at the Atlantic Ocean, spread before him as far as anyone could see.

“Mrs. Trumbull was right to bring you to me. The white men wanted to cover up your killing. They wanted to blame it on another man. But you would be in agony if there was no punishment. Victoria Trumbull understands this. You will do good works for the tribe in Washington.”

Dojan put his head in his hands.

“Be patient, Dojan.” The chief continued to gaze out at the view. “I want you to examine the place Mr. Burkhardt died. Did he bury something? Did he try to uncover something? No one must see you on that cliff. The police have determined that someone unknown killed Mr. Burkhardt. They are calling where he was found a crime scene, and keeping sightseers away. However, you must go there, somehow. Take Mrs. Trumbull with you, if she is willing.”

Dojan sat silently.

The chief said, “I cannot believe a tribal member killed Mr. Burkhardt, but I may be wrong.”

“We’ve located the other niece,” Casey said. She and Victoria were following up on a report of a missing car. “Harley and her biker boyfriend were in that group of seven yesterday. They went to the hospital with the guy who got hurt. She didn’t know about her uncle’s death.”

“Now what?” Victoria held on to the armrest as they passed around a slow-moving front loader.

“The state police are in charge now. I imagine they’ll go through Burkhardt’s house.” Casey made a face. “Then the nieces have to decide
about funeral arrangements. No one seems to know whether there was a will or not. If not, the property is likely to be tied up in probate for a time.”

“Jube told Hiram he was leaving the house to Linda, his younger niece.”

“Someone has to find a will, then,” Casey said. “That’s an expensive piece of property.”

“Maybe the will is in his house.”

Casey slowed as they turned onto Scotchman’s.

“Any idea yet where Hiram is?” Victoria asked.

“None whatsoever,” Casey replied. “We haven’t found his van. We can’t do anything until we find it.”

“Or his body,” said Victoria.

“I keep hoping he’ll show up alive, but it seems less likely as time goes by.”

“Have you tried to reach his friend, Tad Nordstrom? Perhaps Hiram went with him.”

“Could be.”

Victoria shifted to a more comfortable position. “Who’s taking care of Hiram’s cat?”

“The neighbors are feeding it. If Hiram doesn’t show up soon, they’re taking it to the animal shelter.”

Victoria thought for a moment. “I could take the cat in temporarily.”

“What about McCavity?” Casey said, with a smirk.

“McCavity will get used to it. If Hiram doesn’t come back, Mc- Cavity’s house would be better than the shelter.”

“The Island’s shelter is like the Ritz-Carlton for stray animals. Burkhardt had a cat, too. Want two strays?” She looked sideways at Victoria, who changed the subject.

“Is Harley camped out somewhere?”

“With a bunch of bikers behind Maley’s,” said Casey.

“I wonder what’s going to happen when Harley and her sister Linda finally meet up? There seems to be something amiss between them.”

“Eighteen million dollars, maybe?” said Casey.

C
HAPTER
13

It was late that evening, well after dark, before Victoria and Elizabeth sat down for supper. Once Linda had settled her things into the guest room, she told Victoria she was going to the movies and wouldn’t be back until late.

Elizabeth set a fluffy golden soufflé on the table, a soufflé that rose two inches above the sides of the blue oven dish that Victoria’s great- granddaughter Fiona had given her, when they heard the siren in the firehouse a half mile down the road. Within a few minutes, the first fire truck went past the house, lights flashing. The truck turned left onto New Lane. Victoria put her fork down and got up from the table. A second fire engine followed the first. Victoria was still standing at the window when, less than a minute later, Casey pounded on the door. The Bronco was in the drive, its engine running, blue lights circling round and round.

“It’s Burkhardt’s house,” Casey shouted at Elizabeth, when she opened the door. “If your grandmother’s ready to go, I’ll take her with me.”

“I’m ready.” Victoria grabbed a sweater and her cloth bag, and was out of the house and into her seat in the Bronco before Casey climbed back into the driver’s seat.

“Junior saw the flames from his shack on the other side of the Great Pond,” Casey said as she turned on her siren and accelerated out of Victoria’s drive.

“On the Island, we don’t call a shack a shack. We call it a camp,” said Victoria.

Casey grinned. “How many years is it going to take me to become an Islander? Fifty?” She turned to Victoria, who was looking straight ahead. “Anyway, Junior radioed in the first call and then rowed across in his dinghy.”

The Bronco jounced and swayed from one side to the other along the track that led to Burkhardt’s. Victoria barely caught her breath before she was tossed again as far as her seat belt would stretch. In the rear-view mirror she could see the blue and red lights of emergency vehicles bouncing behind them. The sky ahead of them was brilliant orange near the treetops, pink higher up. They raced around the last bend in the road and reached the open area surrounding Burkhardt’s house.

The house was an inferno, a halo of fire against the dark sky, its windows bright with flame.

Casey stopped behind the West Tisbury pumper and went over to the firefighters, who were unreeling hoses.

“Have you seen Junior Norton?” she shouted.

“Over there.” One of the firefighters pointed to the other side of the house.

Victoria got out too, and stood beside the Bronco.

It was clearly too late to save the house. Flames poured upward out of every window. Sparks streamed out of the chimney. Burning wood crackled, timbers crashed within the shell of the house, men shouted, the pumper throbbed. Water hissed into steam as it hit the stone foundation of the house. A beam fell. A section of the roof caved in with a wrenching crash. Glass shattered.

Firefighters, in yellow slickers, boots, and helmets, hosed down the dry grass around the house. Casey finally located Junior, and they stood upwind of the fire.

One outer wall had come down, and the inside of the house showed up in cross section. The second floor, like the first, was heaped with junk. As Victoria watched, the floor collapsed into the center of the building. Piles of burning stuff slid along the sloping floor and fell with a rumble onto the floor below.

In two hours, the house was gone. All that remained was smoldering timbers, the standing chimney, beams leaning at an angle like a giant hearth fire, flames licking along them gently. The fire was still bright enough so Victoria could see among the ruins piles of papers that seemed almost intact. She could make out the blackened refrigerator and the stove, leaning at crazy angles. She could see, where
the entry had been, a charred kayak paddle leaning against an empty blackened door frame.