Deadly Nightshade (17 page)

“Thanks, Domingo!” Noreen shouted over her shoulder as she and Elizabeth went to the car.

Domingo shrugged. “See what I have to put up with?”

Victoria straightened out the woven place mat in front of her on the table and smoothed its fringed edges.

“What do we know so far?” Domingo said.

“Someone killed Bernie Marble.”

“Yas.”

“With the broken rum bottle we found?”

Domingo sipped his coffee without answering.

“We found Meatloaf 's checkbook cover with receipts showing he deposited ten thousand dollars in cash the day Bernie was killed.”

“Correct.”

“Does it fit together somehow?” Victoria stopped toying with the place mat and looked up at Domingo.

He shrugged and gazed out the window.

“Seems like too much of a coincidence, doesn't it?” Victoria, too, looked out the window, noticing the toys in the scuffed yard, the cars flicking by on the other side of the fence. A cardinal landed on the bird feeder, snatched a few seeds, and flew off in a flash of bright red.

Noreen and Elizabeth returned with armfuls of brown grocery bags.

“Coincidences happen.” Domingo stood, went to the door, and slid it shut.

“Domingo, we're going right out again,” Noreen said. “If you're not going to help, at least don't hinder us.”

Domingo made a kissing sound and sat again.

“But you think a coincidence like that is unlikely,” Victoria said.

“It's unlikely that Meatloaf dropped his checkbook close to where Bernie was killed and that the two aren't related.”

“And the ten-thousand-dollar deposit?” Victoria insisted. “On the same date?” She sipped her coffee, eyes on Domingo.

“That, I can't tell you,” Domingo said. “Maybe he deposited his Social Security check.”

Victoria laughed. “He's not old enough.”

They drank their coffee quietly. Victoria heard a jet plane overhead. A car door slammed. The cardinal called from the lilac bush. She heard Noreen and Elizabeth laugh, the rustle of more grocery bags as they came to the door.

Domingo broke their silence. “Everyone knows you were the one who heard something in the harbor that evening, is that correct?” His look was intense.

“Yes.”

“Doesn't it seem reasonable that whoever was at the scene does not want you to recall what you heard? You know how things come back to you when you hear a sound or smell, remind you of something you didn't realize you knew.”

Victoria stared at him. “When Chief Medeiros pulled out of the parking lot after Liz Tate scolded him, I had a feeling I'd heard that same sound of tires on sand before.”

“Did you tell anyone that?”

“I thought of it just this minute.”

“Honey!” he called to Noreen, who was talking with Elizabeth in the kitchen as they unloaded groceries.

“I hear you, Domingo.” She started into the living room, when the telephone rang.

Domingo answered.

“No!” He stamped his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Not Joe!” He looked up at Noreen with a stricken expression. “How'd it happen?”

Elizabeth and Victoria turned to Noreen.

“Joe Palma,” Noreen said, watching Domingo with concern. “Domingo's partner in New York.”

Domingo listened, his head down, chunky hands cradling the phone. “Two months before retirement,” he said into the phone. “He thought he'd beat the odds.”

“Oh shit!” Noreen said. “Another cop killed.”

Domingo took one hand away from the phone, picked up the pen lying on the table, and doodled on the paper in front of him.

“How's Gloria taking it?” he said.

Noreen put her hands up to her face. Victoria and Elizabeth watched Domingo.

“Wake tomorrow.” He looked up at Noreen. “Funeral day after tomorrow. The cathedral?”

Noreen stood frozen, hands still up at her face.

Domingo listened. He wrote something on the paper.

“Thanks. We'd appreciate that. Any room is okay.” He put the pen down and ran his hand over his face. “We'll be there. Noreen and me.” His gaze went from Victoria to Elizabeth to Noreen, and stopped on Noreen's face. “You got enough to think about.” He looked away again. “My condolences to Gloria.”

He hung up the phone and gazed at Noreen with a look of desolation that made Victoria hurt.

“Joe Palma down,” Noreen said. “That's what it was?”

Domingo nodded.

Noreen dropped to her knees. She threw her arms around Domingo and cradled him. Victoria looked away.

“He was helping with a drug bust,” Domingo said. “He wasn't even with the drug force. Just like him, helping out.”

“Can we do anything?” Victoria asked Noreen.

“You could do me a big favor, Mrs. Trumbull,” Noreen said. “I told my daughter I'd sit with my grandson tomorrow morning.”

“What time?” Victoria asked.

“I have the morning shift, Gram. I can drop you off around seven, pick you up whenever,” Elizabeth said.

Victoria looked questioningly at Noreen.

“The school bus comes by around ten.”

“Ten?” Elizabeth asked. “That's late, isn't it?”

“Kindergarten,” Noreen said.

“I'll be here,” Victoria replied.

“Do you need a ride to the airport?” Elizabeth asked.

“Ernesto will take us,” Noreen said.

“Leave the dock attendants in charge of the harbor when you pick up your grandmother,” Domingo said. “Take care until I get back.” He patted Noreen's back. “Meatloaf is supposed to stop by tomorrow to pick up some papers that need to be signed. He can wait.”

“Maybe I'll be here when he comes by?” Victoria's voice rose in a question.

Domingo gave a short laugh. “You can handle him if he does.”

“Let me give you some phone numbers where you can reach us in an emergency.” Noreen got up from the floor.

“Don't worry about us.” Victoria accepted the paper with the phone numbers, and she and Elizabeth started for the door.

“Watch yourself while I'm gone,” Domingo said. “I'll get back when I can.” He stood and put his arm around Noreen; she put her arm around his waist, her blond head on his chest.

“Call Chief O'Neill in West Tisbury and tell her everything we know,” Domingo said. “Everything. We have to trust her.”

Victoria was on her hands and knees, picking up the toys Baby Mingo had strewn around his room before he'd dashed off to catch the school bus, when she heard a knock on the door. It took her a few moments to get to her feet. She braced herself against the small bed and chair next to it and slowly straightened her legs.

She heard the knock again, more impatient-sounding.

She tossed the dump truck she was holding into the toy box and walked stiffly into the kitchen, he knees not yet adjusted from kneeling to walking. When she reached the kitchen, she could see past the table in the living room through the sliding door.

Meatloaf was pacing the small patio between the house and garage, glaring at his watch. Even though Domingo had warned her, she still had a jolt of apprehension when she saw him.

“It's after ten-thirty, for God's sake.” he muttered, loudly enough for Victoria to hear. He returned to the door, cupped his hands around his face, and peered in at the same moment Victoria slid the door open.

Meatloaf stepped back. “What the hell are you doing here, lady? Where's Mingo?”

“He went to a funeral.” Victoria was reluctant to say more.

“He was to leave something for me to get signed.” Meatloaf was wearing his sunglasses, and Victoria realized she had never seen his eyes.

“It's there on the table,” Victoria said, not moving.

He lumbered over from the doorway, shuffled through some papers at Domingo's usual place, and picked up a pile with a note clipped to the top sheet. He read the note.

“I'm supposed to bring this back when Liz Tate signs it. You going to be here this evening?”

Victoria shook her head. 'Til leave the door unlocked.”

Meatloaf straightened the papers by smacking the edges on the table, picked up the manila folder that had been under them, put the papers in the folder, and headed for the door. He stopped before he got there, then turned around. Victoria was still standing in the same place, glaring at him, eyes half-closed.

“Whose funeral?” he asked.

“His partner,” Victoria answered. “A New York policeman.”

“His partner,” Meatloaf repeated. He shook his head. “That's tough on a man, partner and all.” He paused. Victoria waited.

“Killed?” he asked finally.

Victoria nodded.

“I'm sorry.” Meatloaf shook his head again, pushed his sunglasses back up on his nose, and slid the door open. “I'll be by this evening. I'll leave the signed papers on his table.”

Victoria remained standing until she heard his van start up and pull away. She went back to Baby Mingo's room and picked up more toys and some clothing until Elizabeth came by to take her home.

“Where's Meatloaf?” Dotty asked the regulars at the ArtCliff corner table. “Haven't seen him for several days.” She chunked mugs of steaming coffee in front of Beanie, Red, and Shipyard, then swiped the vinyl tablecloth with a damp rag.

“Who knows?” Beanie said. “Last time I seen him was here. After his medi-van run.” He reached for the sugar bowl.

“Probably laid up with indigestion again,” Shipyard said.

“Someone ought to call his wife, find out if he's okay.”

Dotty reached into a rack on the wall and brought out plastic-covered menus. “Want to see the specials?”

“His wife's visiting her mother in Scranton,” Red said.

“Any excuse to get away from him,” said Beanie.

“Maybe someone should call his house?” Dotty suggested. “He might be sick or something.”

“He's sick all right,” Beanie said.

Shipyard laughed. “Sick in the head.”

“You guys lay off him. He's not so bad,” Dotty said.

Shipyard brayed. “He's bad all right.”

“Yeah, we want to see the menu,” Red said. “Not that there's anything different on it.”

“Take your time.” Dotty slapped menus on the table and, before she bustled back into the kitchen, said over her shoulder, “One of you guys, his friends, ought to check up on him, make sure he's okay.”

“It's good to be home again.” Noreen kicked off her high heels. “Funerals depress me.”

“He was a good cop, a good partner.” Domingo stood next to the table and stared blankly at his harpoons. “I'll miss him.”

“New York does cop funerals the way they ought to be done,” Noreen said.

“He was going to visit this fall,” Domingo said. “Kept promising me.”

“I'll invite Gloria to come. Once she's had a little time,” Noreen said. “She'll need to get away.”

Domingo stared at the wall.

“You still look pretty good in your uniform, Domingo,” Noreen said softly. “It still fits you and everything. You still got the ladies making eyes at you.”

“A harpoon is missing.” Domingo focused on the display.

“Cops were lined up from the station house to the cathedral. Must of been three blocks. Solid blue.”

“It was there when we left three days ago.”

“Maybe Ernesto took it.” Noreen shrugged out of her rumpled linen jacket.

Domingo, standing in the middle of the living room floor, examined the harpoons, the couch, the floor, the table.

“Something's not right,” he said.

“Because of the harpoon?” Noreen picked up her shoes.

“Yes, among other things.”

“You never told Meatloaf you couldn't meet with him, did you?” said Noreen. “Maybe he came by.”

“He came by all right,” Domingo said. “He got the papers signed and returned them. They're on the table.”

“Maybe he took your harpoon.” Noreen pulled off her panty hose and twisted them around her hand. “I gotta change.”

When she returned, in jeans and a blue sweatshirt emblazoned With MARTHA'S VINEYARD, PRESIDENTIAL RETREAT across the front, Domingo was on the phone talking to Victoria.

“You're saying, sweetheart, all he did was take the papers and leave, is that correct?” Domingo said. “You weren't here when he returned them, were you?” He paced the length of the living room with the cordless phone held against his ear. “Did he say anything out of the ordinary to you?” Domingo laughed and repeated, “Polite!” He laughed again, then got serious. “Did he say anything about a harpoon?” While he talked, he faced the wall. “One's missing. Was it there when you came by in the morning, sweetheart? Did you notice?” Victoria responded, and he grinned suddenly. “You'd have made a good cop, sweetheart.”

After he hung up, Domingo stood, feet apart, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his good trousers, his blazer open, his tie askew, his eyes studying the harpoons, the couch, the floor.

Noreen looked closely at her husband. “What's bothering you, Domingo? Is it more than the harpoon?”

“Somebody wrenched the harpoon out of the display. See how the edge of the wooden bracket is chipped?” He pointed with two fingers of his right hand, an unlighted cigarette between them.

Noreen leaned over the couch and found the broken-off piece. “You can fix it, can't you?”

Domingo continued as if he hadn't heard. “There was another person here. See the marks on the rug? The rug nap is twisted.”

“Not Victoria wrestling with Baby Mingo, was it?”

Domingo grinned. “I don't think so, honey.”

“Want to call Meatloaf? Find out if he took it?”

“Not particularly. I'll ask him when I see him at the next selectmen's meeting. I'm in no hurry to talk to him.”

The whale-watch boat left Vineyard Haven at 7:00 a.m., heading southeast on Nantucket Sound toward Georges Bank. Some twenty people were on board, including several families with small children. The morning sun shone on puffy clouds, the sky was a brilliant blue, and a brisk wind kicked up whitecaps on the Sound.

“We've seen quite a few pods of whales during the last week,” the marine mammals student observer announced over the loudspeaker. “We're still too close to the Island, but within the next hour, we should begin to see them. While we cruise out to the whale grounds, there are sodas and hot dogs for sale in the galley. You'll find displays on marine mammals there, too.” The loudspeaker gave out a shriek of static. “The first person to spot a whale gets a free cup of coffee. Or, if you're under twelve, a free soda.”