Indian Pipes (14 page)

A half-dozen bikers, all men, had set up folding tables in the shade next to the tents, well away from the Indian pipes, and the women had set out lunch, cold chicken and potato salad. There was laughter and giggling and the snap and hiss of beer cans being opened. Rock music blared from a Cape Cod radio station.

A motorcycle jounced across the field toward the group. A heavyset man seated in a canvas lounge chair looked up as the driver stopped and turned off the engine.

“What’s up, Toby?” The man in the lounge chair held out a can of beer.

Toby lifted his leg over the back of his bike, kicked down the stand, removed his helmet, reached for the beer, popped the top, and held it up. “Thanks, Bugs.” Toby was tall and wiry, and wore his hair in long dreadlocks. He was one of the few bikers without a beard. He was also the only black biker in the group.

“Did you get to the hospital, Toby?” A slim woman with bright metallic blond hair asked.

“Yeah, I did.”

“How’s Jesse?” asked a small man hunched at the table.

“Not bad, considering.” Toby sat in a white resin chair someone had purchased at the hardware store. “Broke his leg, two ribs, and his collarbone. He’s bruised and scraped, but he’ll live. Nothing real serious, no internal injuries.”

“That was stupid.” Bugs’s voice was raspy. “He and the rest of you were hot-dogging it with the local police.”

Toby looked down at the beer can in his hands.

“How long before they let him out?” the man at the table asked.

“Another couple of days, he thinks. He hurts bad.”

“Tough.” Bugs growled. “He’s lucky to be alive.”

One of the women forked chicken and salad onto a plate and gave it to Toby. He smiled at her, teeth white against his dark skin. “Harley was supposed to get in touch with her sister. Anybody know if she did?”

The people around the table looked at one another and shook their heads.

“Haven’t seen her all morning,” said another blonde with long tightly curled hair. “She said something about hitching a ride into Oak Bluffs.” She waved her hand over the chicken to discourage flies that were buzzing around.

“What was she doing in Oak Bluffs?” Toby looked around.

“She didn’t say,” the blonde answered.

“You’ve heard the latest, I trust?” Bugs asked Toby.

“Latest about what?”

“Her uncle’s house burned to the ground last night, according to the radio.” Bugs shifted in his chair, eyes on Toby. “They found a body.”

Toby stopped chewing.

“The police are looking for a biker who was at his place three days running.”

Toby swallowed his mouthful of chicken. “Yeah?”

“You and Harley go there?” Bugs asked.

“What’s it to you?” Toby pushed himself out of the white chair and tossed his beer can at a plastic trash container.

“Pick it up,” Bugs ordered.

Toby picked up the can and dropped it into the container.

“You want to know what’s it to me? I’ll tell you.” Bugs got up from his chair, knocking over a butterfly net that had been leaning against it. The metallic-haired blonde picked up the net. Bugs was huge, six foot six at least, with an enormous stomach, huge muscular thighs, and arms like a weight lifter’s. His head was small by comparison. He was bald, with a fringe of hair above his ears and a heavy black beard flecked with white and red. He wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses. “Sit down, brother.”

Toby sat again in the white chair.

“We’re here to have fun, right?”

Toby looked up at Bugs and nodded.

“We’re not here to cause trouble, right?” Bugs growled.

Toby shook his head. “Right?”

Toby nodded and looked at Bugs.

“We’ve got a reputation for being bad, right?” Bugs stared at the black biker.

Toby nodded.

“We don’t mind being bad. But we’re not BAD bad, right?”

Toby nodded.

“So you stupid shits try to outrun the local cops.” Bugs pounded a fist into his open hand. “On an Island, for Chrissakes. Where did you think you were going? Round and round in circles until you ran out of gas? Smart, boy, really smart.”

Toby said nothing. The rest of the group watched Bugs. The blonde waved her hand over the chicken.

“Lucky for us a biker got hurt, not some toddler.”

Toby leaned forward in his chair and looked down.

“We’re here to raise money to buy toys, for Chrissakes. We’re here to change our image. Bad but decent, right?”

Toby stared up at Bugs, who was now pacing back and forth in front of his chair, his eyes fixed on Toby. He paced from shadow into sunlight. His bald head glistened.

“You know what the cops think now?”

Toby said nothing.

“Do you?” Bugs stopped pacing.

Toby shook his head and closed his eyes.

“The cops believe Uncle Jube was killed. The cops think a biker killed Uncle Jube, right?”

Toby opened his eyes.

Bugs leaned over him. “Am I right?” he rasped.

“I don’t know.” Toby leaned back, away from Bugs’s too-close face.

“Well, I am. I’m right. Uncle Jube was making a big scene about bikers’ attitudes and bikers’ noise and bikers’ mess. The cops are asking, did Uncle Jube make so much fuss that he upset the bikers?”

Toby said nothing.

“It all comes through on the scanner, what the cops think.” Bugs gestured to the battery-operated scanner on the picnic table. “You and I know what upset Uncle Jube about the bikers, don’t we?” Bugs jabbed a finger at Toby. “It’s because some black dude biker is screwing his favorite niece, right?”

Toby said nothing.

“You know what else the cops think?”

Toby shook his head.

“The cops think a biker parked in Uncle Jube’s barn and killed somebody in Uncle Jube’s house. The cops think a biker came back the next day and maybe stole something from Uncle Jube’s house. A will, maybe? Would you happen to know about that, Toby? The cops think a biker came back the day after that and torched Uncle Jube’s house to get rid of the body and the evidence, then swept away the bike tracks in the barn. You know what I’m saying?”

“Oh God, no!” Toby stood up suddenly, and his chair tipped over.

“You and your girlfriend are in deep doo-doo.” Bugs grabbed the butterfly net and strode out into the field, flourishing it by its frail handle like a sword.

The curly-haired blonde whispered to Toby, “Bugs says there’s eighty species of butterflies on Martha’s Vineyard.”

Casey saw Dojan’s van fly past the station house going at least twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. She sighed, heaved herself
out of her swivel chair, fastened on her belt, and went after him, blue lights flashing. Dojan turned into Victoria’s drive. Casey followed.

She got out of the vehicle and was tugging her belt into a more comfortable position, ready to give Dojan a scolding or a speeding ticket, when she saw his expression.

“What’s the matter, Dojan?”

“Victoria.” His voice was low.

“What are you talking about?”

“The engineer was murdered. Now Hiram is dead.”

“We don’t have confirmation yet that it was Hiram.” Casey stuck her thumbs in her trouser pockets. Dojan’s head was thrown back, and he stared down his nose at Casey. His eyes were wild. He wore his black mesh shirt and black jeans, and his bare feet were dirty. Ragged strips of peeling sunburn hung from his forehead, nose, and upper arms. His tattoos looked as if they were covered with shredded plastic.

“Three people knew something that nobody else knew. Jube Burkhardt, Hiram Pennybacker, and Victoria Trumbull.”

“She’s not involved in this, Dojan.”

“Yes she is. The sewage engineer spoke to Hiram before he died. Hiram spoke to Victoria before he was killed. Hiram told Victoria something. She does not know what she knows. But she is next.”

“What do you expect me to do? I can’t guard her round the clock just because you’re worried about her.”

“I don’t want your help. Victoria is my friend.” He jabbed his thumb at his chest. “I will take care of her.”

“Lord!” said Casey.

Victoria appeared at the kitchen door. “I thought I heard you drive up. Elizabeth’s made a fresh pot of coffee. Come in and have some.”

“No, thanks, Victoria, I’ve got to get back to my paperwork.” Casey turned to Dojan. “Will you please slow down when you drive through
my
town? Next time I’m giving you a ticket.” She climbed into the Bronco and drove off.

Dojan wiped his bare feet on the grass mat in the entry, and ducked his head so the new osprey feather in his hair would clear the doorway.

Victoria studied him with concern. “What’s wrong, Dojan?”

“Is Hiram dead?”

“The arson squad found human remains. I think it’s Hiram, but the forensics people need to go through dental records.” She paused. “There wasn’t much left to identify.”

Dojan shook his head. “That day I came to your house, Hiram left when he saw me. What did he say to you?”

“Not much,” Victoria said. “Jube Burkhardt, the engineer…?”

“I know who he was.”

“He and Hiram had a long talk at Hiram’s house the night before Jube was killed.” Victoria moved away from the doorway. “Let’s sit down.”

Dojan followed her into the cookroom and perched on the edge of his chair.

“Hiram said Jube was keyed up, ranting all over the place,” said Victoria. “One minute against the casino, the next minute for it.”

“Anything else?” Dojan was shaking one leg impatiently. Only his strange eyes showed he was listening.

“He told me Jube threatened to hold up any septic request the tribe submitted. Jube said he would check every septic tank in Gay Head.”

Dojan nodded. “That would hold off action for years.”

“After that, he stalked out of the meeting.”

“Calling everybody ‘mongrels,’ ” said Elizabeth, who’d brought in the coffeepot and mugs from the kitchen.

“What else?”

“The day Jube was killed, he asked Hiram to meet him at the foot of the cliffs along with someone else.”

“The killer.” Dojan stopped shaking his leg.

“That was all Jube said to Hiram until the night I saw him on the cliff. Hiram climbed down the cliff. Before he died, Jube said to Hiram, quite clearly, ‘Sibyl.’ “

“Sibyl?” said Dojan.

Victoria nodded. “The arson squad found Jube’s computer this morning. On the side was a partly burned decal that read
SIBYL.”

“Where is the computer now?” Dojan asked, leaning forward. He hadn’t touched the coffee Elizabeth had poured.

“Howland brought it here a couple of hours ago,” Elizabeth said. “I wasn’t here, so he left a note.”

“You know Howland Atherton, don’t you?” Victoria asked.

Dojan nodded. “The federal drug agent.”

“He’s also a computer expert. The computer is badly burned, but he’s going to salvage whatever he can. Do you want to see it?”

Dojan nodded. The osprey feather bobbed.

“How did you get the new feather?” asked Elizabeth. “Pluck it out of a bird?”

“Under the osprey nest near my boat.” Dojan turned to Victoria. “You must put the computer someplace safe. The police station. It’s not safe here.”

“The police station door doesn’t have a lock, either.”

“Better there than here.” Dojan padded through the kitchen and dining room into the library.

The library was on its way to becoming like Jube Burkhardt’s house. Stacks of books were piled next to the bookcases. The shelves overflowed. When she had time, Victoria intended to sort through the books, give some of them to Mary Jo for the library book sale, but she hadn’t gotten around to it yet. The sofa was piled with Christmas decorations and wrapping paper she hadn’t taken up to the attic yet, a jigsaw puzzle Elizabeth had completed that was too pretty to break apart. There was a big oak desk, its top covered with papers, chairs with caned bottoms in need of repair, a couple of lamps that were too good to throw out. Victoria could sympathize with Jube Burkhardt. Give her more time and she could fill up her house with things that might be useful someday as completely as he had filled his.

“Where is it?” Dojan looked around.

“Howland’s note said behind the couch,” Elizabeth answered.

Victoria bent down to look. When she didn’t see the computer, she and Dojan shifted the couch to one side.

“Where could he have put it?” Victoria said.

“Someone has stolen it,” said Dojan.

“Maybe Howland reconsidered and took it home with him, after all,” Victoria said.

“I don’t like this,” said Dojan. “Get out of this house and stay away until the killer is found.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dojan.”

Dojan grasped Victoria’s arm. “You don’t understand, my friend. The killer thinks you know something.”

Victoria scowled. “Well, I don’t.” She stood up. “I am not leaving this house, Dojan, and that’s that.” She stalked out of the room.

Elizabeth laughed. “The killer’s going to have a tough time with my grandmother.”

“This is not funny,” said Dojan.

C
HAPTER
17

Howland arrived ten minutes later, and he, Victoria, and Elizabeth went into the library where Dojan was seated on the thronelike wooden armchair.

“I put the computer here,” said Howland, indicating a space behind the couch. “Are you sure none of you moved it?”

“Certainly not,” said Victoria.

Howland lifted the end of the couch and moved it still farther into the room, exposing a roll of dust, several pennies, and a golf ball.

“The computer wouldn’t have fit underneath,” Victoria said. “The couch is too low.”

“I searched under and around all the furniture,” said Elizabeth. “Definitely not here.”

Howland ran his fingers through his hair. “Who knew you’d found the computer, Victoria?”

“The arson squad, Chief O’Neill, Junior Norton, and the three of you.” Victoria sat on the arm of the sofa. “Are you sure you didn’t take it home with you, Howland?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he said curtly. “There’s still a crushed spot on the rug where I put the thing.”

Dojan, who’d been silent ever since Howland arrived, uncrossed his leg, put both feet flat on the floor, and gripped the arms of the chair. He looked, Victoria thought, like a pharaoh whose beard and hair had gone awry.