Deadly Nightshade (12 page)

“That's an expensive boat,” Howland said as he continued typing.

“He's got a live-aboard captain, too.” Domingo paced the shack. “That's not cheap.” He stepped outside and stood at the railing, looking out at the Harbor House.

“A yacht and a five-million-dollar house on a professor's salary?” Howland lifted his eyebrows.

“The money comes from something else.” Domingo turned his back to the railing and put his elbows on it. “If I'm not mistaken,” he said with a slight smile, his bright eyes on Howland, “he made his money developing a computer program.”

Howland looked up at the harbormaster, and his mouth turned down. “Why didn't you ask him to develop the harbor-management program instead of me?”

“He's too busy.”

“I suppose I'm not?”

Domingo continued to talk as if to himself. “In the couple of years he's lived here, he's become a pillar of the community. Volunteers at the hospital. Teaches in the literacy program.” He glanced from the Harbor House to Howland. “You could be doing good works, if you'd only get going with that harbor program.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Howland went back to the keyboard.

The door of the shack was swinging slightly. Domingo leaned down and propped it open with a rounded beach rock. He turned and looked at Howland. “How are you coming with those receipts?”

“Between Elizabeth and me, everything's entered except the ones in this pile.” Howland picked up an inch-thick stack of receipts. “Those, we couldn't read. Those kids can't write.” He pointed to the top one. “Can you read this?”

Domingo fished in his pocket for his glasses and looked at the name written in the space designated “Boat owner.” He shook his head and handed the stack of receipts back to Howland.

“Or this one.” Howland handed the next receipt on the stack to Domingo. “What's that boat name?”

Domingo looked at it and shook his head again. “Looks like
Otter Creek
.”

“Or is it
Sweet Life
, or
Other Wife
?” Howland slapped the pile of receipts. “Figuring out this program is difficult enough without having to deal with illiterate kids.”

Domingo grinned. “Their aunts or fathers will probably cite me for abuse if I tell them to print clearly.”

“In addition to the dock attendants' lousy writing,” Howland continued, “boat owners give boats the most ridiculous names, spelled in improbable ways. We registered four boats named
Why Not
, spelled in four different ways. Puns, professions, pet names, naughty names. We registered three boats named
Wet Dream
.”

Howland glanced up from his computer to look out at the parking lot. “Who's that?” He indicated a tall, extremely slender man with curly dark hair, white on the sides, and a large black mustache who was walking from the parking lot toward the catwalk. He was wearing tan chino slacks and a light blue knit collared shirt.

“That's the professor.”

“
Dawn Chorus
, a five-million-dollar house on the beach.”

Howland looked closely at the man coming down the catwalk. “Inventor of a multimillion-dollar software program.”

“Right”

The tall man approached the shack and grinned, perfect white teeth dazzling in his tanned face, as Domingo went outside to greet him. He thrust out his hand, Domingo thrust out his, and they shook.

“How're you doing, Professor?”

“Not bad. You having a good season?” Standing next to Domingo, he leaned his elbow on the railing, crossed his left foot over his right, and peered genially down at the small, dark harbormaster. The boat shoes on his sockless feet were new and polished.

“You heard about Bernie Marble's murder?” Domingo, leaning with his back against the railing, looked up at the professor.

“Not something you expect on the Island. Do they know who did it?” He raised his thick eyebrows in an upside-down V.

Domingo shook his head. “If they do, no one's saying.”

“Probably don't want to make too much fuss with the president coming in a week or so. Wouldn't look good.”

Howland, who had been listening from inside the shack, got up from his seat in front of the computer and joined Domingo and the professor on the deck. The professor was at least three inches taller and much slimmer than Howland.

The professor straightened up and extended his hand. “Name's Rocky,” he said.

“Howland Atherton.” Howland lifted his head so he could look down his nose at the taller man.

“Understand you're developing the computer program with my drinking buddy here.”

Domingo turned to face the harbor, elbows on the railing, looking at the Harbor House.

“I believe you're the one who ought to be developing this program.” Howland glanced at Domingo's back. “My experience is with the three-eight-six.”

“That's what you need for this job. You don't want a high-tech program. Mind if I take a look at it?” the professor asked. “I don't want to intrude, of course. Believe me, I know what it's like to work out the bugs in one of these programs.”

“Not at all.” Howland bowed slightly and held his hand out for the professor to lead the way. The professor ducked through the door, Howland following. He pulled the second aluminum lawn chair up to the computer and both sat.

Domingo lifted a hand. “I've got to check the dock attendants.” He went down the catwalk and disappeared behind the tent with the butterfly display next to the snack bar.

“Good man,” the professor said after Domingo had left.

“The selectmen don't seem to think so.” Howland pressed a key and the screen demanded a code word. The professor averted his eyes politely while Howland typed in “
mujer
.” Howland hit the enter key and the harbor-management program popped up on the screen.

“Nice. Straightforward, simple.” The professor leaned forward in the lawn chair. “You must have had the deuce of a time setting that up. The simpler the application, in my experience, the more difficult the programming.”

“It did take some thought.”

“I can imagine. More than some. Would you mind showing me how you did that?” The professor sat back. “If you don't mind.”

“No, no. I'm certainly delighted to show you.”

The phone rang.

“Do you need to answer?”

“No,” Howland said. “The machine will pick up on it. I don't work here.”

The phone stopped after a few rings, and they could hear the answering machine whir.

“I'm interested in how you handled problems such as differing boat lengths and beams, varying slip sizes, where boats came from, and the length of stay.”

Howland put a stack of clean paper into the printer. “Ill give you copies of forms we use for reservations. As I said, it's not original, I'm basing my work on existing software.”

“All the more impressive. Domingo mentioned earlier that you've developed forms for the turnover reports. I take it those are the reports that accompany checks and cash you turn over to the town?” The professor moved his chair closer to the computer.

“Yes, that's right.”

“Ingenious. Knowing Domingo, he probably doesn't appreciate what you've done.”

“True, to some extent.”

“He's not free with his compliments.” The professor leaned back in the chair while Howland printed out copies of the forms he had designed. “He's pretty shrewd, Domingo is,” the professor continued. “I wouldn't like to be on his wrong side.”

The radio crackled on the wall behind them. A voice came on, saying, “Oak Bluffs harbormaster, Oak Bluffs harbormaster.” The professor raised his eyebrows at Howland.

“Domingo has a handheld radio. He'll take care of it.”

“You were saying about the program?”

“I think this management program will protect him to some extent.” Howland turned to look at the other man. “We'll have all the information he needs to run the harbor—registration numbers, addresses, that sort of thing.”

“Domingo seems to believe money is slipping through loopholes in the system,” the professor said.

Howland paused before he answered. “Yes.”

The professor showed concern. “You'd think the selectmen would support him more than they seem to be doing.”

“Yeah,” said Howland. “You would think so.”

The shack swayed slightly on its pilings, and the professor looked up.

“Domingo's assistant, Elizabeth Trumbull.” Howland said.

“Oh?” The professor raised his eyebrows.

“She's Victoria Trumbull's granddaughter, lives with her.”

“Good place to be,” the professor said.

Elizabeth reached the door and hesitated when she saw someone with Howland at the computer. She brushed her hair away from her face with the back of her hand. The freckles on her nose stood out against her tan.

“Come on in,” Howland said. “Meet the owner of
Dawn Chorus
, Professor Folger. Elizabeth Trumbull.” The professor got to his feet and extended his hand to Elizabeth, who shook it firmly.

“I don't often have to look up to anyone.” Elizabeth tipped her head back.

The professor bowed slightly. “I understand there aren't many people you need to look up to,” he said graciously. “So you're Victoria Trumbull's granddaughter?”

Elizabeth smiled and nodded.

“I'm a great admirer of her poetry. I believe I have all of her books. She must be along in years.”

“She's ninety-two.”

“And still writing, from what I read in the Enquirer.”

“Please, sit down.” Elizabeth stepped into the shack. “I'll sit on the desk and watch you work.”

“It was your grandmother who witnessed Bernie Marble's murder, wasn't it?” the professor asked.

“I don't believe she actually witnessed it,” Elizabeth said cautiously. “She heard a scream.”

Howland said, “Victoria, Domingo, and Elizabeth found the body.”

“That must have been a horrible experience.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“The professor developed an astrophysics program,” Howland said to Elizabeth. “I'm showing him our harbor application.”

“Call me Rocky. My students do.”

“Where do you teach?” Elizabeth sat on the edge of the desk.

“I was teaching at MIT,” Rocky said. “However, I'm now an independent consultant.”

Elizabeth looked out the window. “
Dawn Chorus
is beautiful.”

“She's about thirty years old.”

Elizabeth whistled. “She looks brand-new. What a lot of work to keep up that teak and all the brightwork.”

“Would you care to come aboard?”

“I'm on duty today.” Elizabeth looked at the sleek boat at the fuel dock. “How much longer will you be here in the harbor?”

“I'll be here for a while. It would be my pleasure to have you aboard for drinks. And you, Mr. Atherton?”

“Call me Howland.”

The professor got to his feet. “Elizabeth, I'll send you an invitation, you and your grandmother, for drinks aboard.” He went through the door, ducking his head.

Elizabeth sat on the edge of the desk and watched the professor stride along the bulkhead toward his boat. “Maybe my grandmother could practice her matchmaking on him.” She turned back to Howland. “She's trying to pair me up with Ben Norton, who's at least thirty years older than me. This professor seems to have money, brains, and he's tall.”

Howland gazed at her. “Too good to be true, right?”

“He's probably married.” Elizabeth sighed. “Where did he get his money, from his computer program?”

Howland shrugged and turned back to the screen.

Elizabeth continued talking. “If you were to market your harbor program the way Domingo thinks you should, maybe you'd make your fortune, too.”

“A million-dollar yacht with live-aboard captain?” Howland shook his head. “With the proceeds of a computer program?”

“You're just jealous.” Elizabeth slid off the desk and sat next to him. “I guess we'd better try matching this pile of receipts with whatever we can that's in the computer.”

“Who's guarding Victoria right now?” Howland paused in his data entry and glanced at Elizabeth.

“Chief O'Neill assigned the two West Tisbury patrolmen to watch her, and Ben Norton was going to stop by later. I don't believe there's anyone with her right now.”

Howland finished the entry he was working on, stood up abruptly, picked up his green canvas briefcase, and put a sheaf of papers into it.

“I've got to go. Will you be okay, Elizabeth?”

“Of course. Why the sudden concern? I've been working here alone for more than two months now.”

“Sorry. I don't mean to sound protective. See you later.”

Victoria was opening a small can of cat food when Howland knocked. McCavity was on his hind legs, front paws up high, mewing. “Come in—the door's open.” Victoria dished cat food into McCavity's bowl and set it on the floor. As the cat dodged under the table, his tail bumped the table leaf, which banged. By the time Howland entered, McCavity's head was in the bowl.

“Haven't seen you since this morning.” Victoria looked up at Howland with a twinkle in her eyes. “Nice to be so popular.”

“Can't stay away from you. Do you have any coffee left from this morning?” He lifted the pot off the burner.

“I've never seen anything like it. Everybody in town has dropped in for coffee. I've gone through three pots so far today. I haven't had a moment alone to write.”

“Anyone you don't know?” Howland reached the cobalt blue mug down from the cupboard over the sink and poured himself a cup.

“Yes. The nicest man came by, left only a few minutes ago. He had copies of all of my books, and he asked me to autograph them.” Victoria went into the cookroom and sat at the table.

“Oh? Who was it?” Howland poured milk into his coffee and sat across from Victoria at the table.

“T. R. something. I wrote it down to make sure I spelled it right in his books.” She sorted through some papers on the telephone table. “It's here somewhere.”

“T. R. Folger.”

“Yes. That's right. Do you know him?”

“I met him today. About an hour ago, at the harbor.”

“He must have come right here. Imagine that.” She picked out a couple of wilted zinnias from the bowl of flowers in the center of the table and laid them next to her.

“What did he have to say?” Howland sipped his coffee.