Shooting Star (13 page)
Authors: Cynthia Riggs
“We’ve got to let his mother know he’s okay. Otherwise she’ll go nuts.”
Victoria nodded. “This is still hypothetical.”
“Yes,” said Smalley. “Strictly hypothetical.”
“Let’s say the child has written a note for his mother saying he’s safe, that he got away from the burglar, and he’ll get in touch with her on Monday.”
Smalley looked at his watch. “This is Saturday.” He looked up at Victoria. “Would it be advisable for me to call off the all-Island search for Teddy?”
“If I were you, yes. I would call off the search.”
“And if you were me, would you notify the Island police departments that the boy is safe and is in hiding?”
“If I were you, yes.” Victoria sat forward in her own chair. “How much may I tell you before the law gets involved and you must act on what I have to say?”
“If I were you,” said Smalley, smiling, “I would continue to talk theoretically. But in detail, please.”
Victoria told him how Teddy had heard Peg scream for him to run, how he had seen an unfamiliar light-colored car turn off the Job’s Neck Road and head toward town, how he’d gone back to his house and climbed the beech tree.
“That explains the broken branch,” said Smalley.
She told him how Teddy had found Peg’s dog, Sandy, hurt, and had decided to ride his bike to her house and hide in her big attic. She repeated what Teddy had said about a second car that had turned off the Job’s Neck Road, also heading toward town.
“Theoretically, could the boy identify either of the cars?” Smalley asked.
“He might.”
Smalley made some notes. “I need to question the boy, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“I gave him my word that I’ll keep his secret until Monday.”
Smalley shook his head. “Terribly irregular, Mrs. Trumbull. You can work unofficially, whereas I am legally obligated to inform the parents, regardless of my personal feelings.”
“Do you want me to question him about the cars and the intruder?”
Smalley leaned back in his chair and swiveled it toward the flag in the corner. “Since you’re asking me hypothetical questions about a hypothetical child, let me give you a list of questions that would aid the police, should this turn into a real situation. I need his answers as soon as possible.” He swiveled back to his computer, tapped away at the keyboard, and printed out a list of questions.
Victoria examined the list. “Thank you.”
“You realize, of course, Mrs. Trumbull, just how irregular all this is?”
Victoria nodded.
“You realize, too, what a chance I’m taking by going along with your idea of a hypothetical child?”
“It’s not much of a chance,” said Victoria.
“Monday, then, you’ll notify us?”
“I’ve promised I’d keep his secret until Monday.”
“Can you tell me if the boy is in any danger at present?”
“No,” said Victoria firmly. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“On your say-so, I’m calling off the search. However, I’m stationing Trooper Eldredge near your house, just in case.”
Victoria got up from her chair. “Tim is welcome to stay with me. I have an extra bedroom. He won’t have to sit in his car.”
While Casey waited for Victoria in the reception area of the state police barracks, she studied a report she’d brought with her. She looked up and closed the folder when she heard her deputy coming down the stairs.
As Victoria reached the last step, the buzzer on the desk sounded, and Trooper Tim Eldredge picked up the phone. “Eldredge, here.” Pause. “Yes, sir. She’s still here.” Pause. “Right.” He stood. “Chief O’Neill, the sergeant wants you.”
“Now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, ma’am. You can go right on up. He’ll meet you at the head of the stairs.”
Victoria smiled and seated herself on the bench. “I’ll wait. I’ve got a poem I’m working on. A triolet.”
“A
what
?”
what
?”
“Triolet. The first line is repeated as the fourth and seventh lines, and the second line is repeated as the eighth, and last, line—the rhyme scheme is A B a A a b A B.”
“Say what?”
“That’s the rhyme scheme for a triolet, A B …”
“Okay, Victoria.” Casey shook her head and trudged up the stairs. She followed Smalley into his office and sat in the chair Victoria had vacated.
“Victoria was giving me a poetry lecture. You want to see me about something she said?”
Smalley grinned. “I’m not at liberty to divulge Mrs. Trumbull’s
confidences. However, in my opinion, we can call off the search for the boy. You might want to notify your people.”
confidences. However, in my opinion, we can call off the search for the boy. You might want to notify your people.”
“Yeah? So Victoria’s found him and is hiding him?”
“Can’t say.” Smalley’s grin grew wider. “That was one reason I wanted to see you. The other reason has to do with Bob Scott.” Smalley’s grin faded. “The actor who died last night.”
Casey sat forward. “Something fishy about his death?”
“Decidedly fishy. Since Dr. McAlistair is still on Island, Toby the undertaker took Scott’s body to Rose Haven Funeral Parlor, and the doc will do a preliminary cause of death exam there.”
“He didn’t die naturally of a heart attack, then? Did Frankenstein’s monster strangle him too realistically in the play?”
“We don’t think so. Maria Gallante, the cleaning woman, found a plastic cup next to the sofa where Scott was lying. She was smart enough to pick up the cup with a tissue, put it in a paper bag, and give it to the ambulance crew when they arrived.”
“One benefit of watching TV,” said Casey. “Poisoned?”
“Could be.”
“With what?”
“The lab in Sudbury is testing the residue in the cup as we speak.” Smalley shrugged. “We won’t know until the tests are in. Won’t know for sure that he was poisoned.”
“Mind if I share this with Victoria?”
“She’s your deputy. I’d say she’s pretty good at keeping confidences.” Smalley grinned again. “Tell her the information is to go no further.”
“When will we get back the tests?”
Smalley looked at his watch. “They’re doing a rush job. But that won’t be tomorrow.”
“Can we assume Teddy’s safe?” asked Casey.
“Theoretically and hypothetically, yes.”
“We still have two suspicious deaths.”
Smalley nodded. “The boy may have been—in fact, still may
be—an intended victim. I’ll ask Trooper Eldredge to keep an eye on Mrs. Trumbull’s house for the next few days.”
be—an intended victim. I’ll ask Trooper Eldredge to keep an eye on Mrs. Trumbull’s house for the next few days.”
“So that’s where he is. That figures,” said Casey. “What about the boy’s mother?”
“Mrs. Trumbull is handling that.”
“Lord!” said Casey. “I should ask the selectmen to send her to the police academy for some basic training.”
“She doesn’t need further training,” said Smalley. “In fact, we could learn a thing or two from her.”
“The stakeout of Victoria’s is unofficial?”
“You could say that.”
Casey took a deep breath. “I’ll talk to my sergeant, Junior Norton. Ask him if he would mind very much, if it’s not too inconvenient, sitting in on an all-night poker game with his buddy Tim Eldredge at Mrs. Trumbull’s.”
“Nicely put,” said Smalley.
“Would you mind stopping at the pet store?” Victoria asked Casey, as they headed back to West Tisbury from the state police barracks. “I need to buy cat food.”
“Sure, Victoria. But I thought McCavity only ate food from those fancy little cans you get at Cronig’s.” Casey eyed her deputy, who stared straight ahead. “Ah,” she said. “You want to talk to the guy who works there. Bruce Duncan. About the goldfish, right?”
Victoria nodded. “That, too.”
Precious Pets was down a slight hill, behind and below Radio Shack in what amounted to the ground-level basement of the shops above. Casey pulled up in front of the store. A sleepy Black Lab, who’d been dozing in the shade of an overgrown lilac bush, got to her feet, shook herself, and stood expectantly, tongue out, tail wagging. Victoria held out her hand, and the dog sniffed.
“She must smell McCavity,” said Casey, holding the door.
Victoria went in first. She breathed in the odors of puppies and kittens and hamsters and fresh cedar shavings. Casey followed her past an open pen of snuggled-together black puppies, past shelves piled with collars and pillows, rawhide bones and catnip mice, bags of cat chow, dog chow, litter, cedar shavings, and birdseed. At the end of the aisle were a half-dozen fish tanks.
Bruce Duncan stood on a step stool, siphoning sludge from the gravel at the bottom of one of the tanks. He wore his usual black T-shirt with VETA in large green letters on the front and Vineyarders for the Ethical Treatment of Animals on the back. “Can I help you?” he said before he turned and recognized Victoria. “Mrs. Trumbull. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to buy a few goldfish for my pond,” Victoria said, examining the tanks.
Bruce lifted the siphon, and the stream of muddy water in the plastic hose gurgled back into the tank. He stepped off the stool and winced as he put his weight on his right foot.
“Are you all right?” Victoria asked, concerned.
“Barked my shin couple days ago.” Once he was off the stool, Bruce was almost a head shorter than Victoria. “You want goldfish?” He pointed to one of the empty tanks, and his face darkened. “That idiot, excuse my French, Mrs. Trumbull, that idiot at the express office
killed
them.”
killed
them.”
“Oh?” said Victoria.
“At the airport.” Bruce dropped the siphon into a bucket partially filled with sludge.
“I don’t understand.”
Bruce smoothed down the thin strand of hair he’d combed over the top of his head. “You know Roderick Hill?”
“Yes. From the play. The stand-in for the monster.”
“That’s the one. The monster. The store got an air shipment of five hundred goldfish this weekend, and he killed them.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Victoria.
“You know he works at the express agency at the airport,
don’t you? Rapid Express.” Bruce’s face became even pinker. “He left the container of goldfish out on the tarmac over the weekend. They stewed to death in the hot sun.”
don’t you? Rapid Express.” Bruce’s face became even pinker. “He left the container of goldfish out on the tarmac over the weekend. They stewed to death in the hot sun.”
Casey had been standing next to Victoria. She coughed politely. “I’m going to look at the Black Lab pups, Victoria,” and she strolled toward the puppy pen.
“Surely, he didn’t do it on purpose. Wasn’t there a sign on the carton? ‘Live Fish’ or something like that?”
“He didn’t even look. Didn’t notice the four-inch-high fluorescent red letters saying ‘Live Fish’. Wrapped up in his own sweet self. Can you imagine what it must have been like for those fish in the hot sun?”
“No, I can’t imagine,” said Victoria, sympathetically. “I don’t even want to think about it. Will you be getting a new shipment?”
“Not if he’s still employed by those Rapid Express people, we won’t.” Bruce picked up a plastic lid from the floor and uncovered the bucket. “I don’t think he’ll be with them much longer. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“That certainly was irresponsible.” Victoria leaned on her lilac-wood stick. She’d been standing a long time.
“Irresponsible! He takes after his uncle. Self-centered, vain, thoughtless, stupid …”
“I don’t believe he’s stupid,” said Victoria.
“Well, he obviously can’t read. I’ll fix him one day.”
“Don’t do anything rash,” advised Victoria.
Bruce went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Does he have more rights than any one of those goldfish? They were simply trying to live their own lives.” He smacked a fist into his palm. “I’d like him to know what it’s like to be boiled alive.”
“That sounds a bit extreme,” said Victoria.
“To think that he and his uncle went ahead with the play even after …” He paused. “Even after …”
“You were right to refuse to go on stage last night. It was crass and insensitive for Dearborn to continue with opening night.
Box office, he said.” Victoria looked around for a place to sit and ended up leaning against the table.
Box office, he said.” Victoria looked around for a place to sit and ended up leaning against the table.
Bruce lifted the bucket and set it on the table. The sludge smelled strongly of ammonia. “I was the next victim, Mrs. Trumbull. You know that, don’t you?”
“I think you’re being overly …” Victoria didn’t finish. The man who’d taken over Bruce Duncan’s role was dead, and she didn’t know if Bruce had heard yet.
“I’m not being overly anything. Two deaths in order of appearance, little William and the housekeeper Justine. The third victim, Frankenstein’s friend Henry Clerval, is me!” He pounded his chest.
“Have you seen any of this morning’s off-Island newspapers?” Victoria raised her eyebrows.
“I haven’t had time,” Bruce said.
“The papers report that Robert Scott died of an apparent heart attack.”
“No!”
Victoria waited.
“You see? That death was intended for me.”
“The papers claimed he died of heart failure.”
“That’s what death is. Heart failure. Now it’s three people. If I’d gone on stage last night …” He didn’t complete the thought.
“Teddy isn’t dead.”
“He was the first one killed by the monster.”
“Peg’s death was attributed to an unfortunate accident. Robert’s to a heart attack.”
“Coincidental? Two deaths, maybe three?” Bruce lifted the siphon out of the bucket and shook a few drops of water from it. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“Not crazy,” said Victoria. “Sensitive, perhaps. Or, like many actors, superstitious. It’s a coincidence that two members of the cast have died. But Teddy is alive,” she repeated.
Casey returned from the Lab puppies. “Did you need cat food, Victoria?”
“No,” said Victoria, turning back to Bruce. “Who do you think killed them?”
“I’m not saying, Mrs. Trumbull. But I think you can guess.”
Victoria shifted her weight to a more comfortable position. “You were disturbed by something else in the play, Bruce. Would you mind telling me what?”
Bruce laid the siphon on a tray in front of the empty goldfish tank. “The costumes.”
“Oh?” asked Victoria, puzzled.
“The explorer’s parka, the monster’s hands and feet, the housekeeper’s coat collar, the bride’s wrap.”
“What about them?”
“Fur,” Bruce said. “Fur! Animals killed to amuse some uncaring audience. Wolf ruff. Dog hair. Mink collar. Beaver coat.”
“I believe it’s rabbit, not beaver,” said Victoria.
“You think rabbits are inferior to beaver?”
“Rabbits ate my tulips this spring. All of them.”
“They’ve got to eat, too.”
“They simply nipped off the buds. Wasted the rest of the plant. Tulips have as much soul as rabbits,” said Victoria, shifting away from the ammonia smell. “At any rate, all of the costumes came from items found at the West Tisbury dump.”
“It’s still fur,” repeated Bruce. “Animals killed for their fur.”
“Talk to Dearborn about the costumes.”
“Lot of good he is, Mrs. Trumbull. He was drunk as a skunk last night.”
“Was he?”
“At least, that’s what I heard.”
“You intend to continue acting in the play, don’t you, Bruce? Now that we’ve paid tribute to Peg by not performing in opening night. If you’re concerned about Henry Clerval’s death, I don’t suppose he’s likely to die a second time.”
Bruce thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t be too sure.”
“You cared a great deal for Peg, didn’t you? She was a lovely person. I know she cared about you, too.”
He turned, and Victoria saw that he was angry, not sorrowful. “Cared about me?”
“Certainly. She thought highly of you.”
“She didn’t care about me, Mrs. Trumbull.” He picked up the slop bucket. “She despised me.”
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