Deadly Nightshade (19 page)

“What are you thinking?” Elizabeth stood up straight, her hands braced on the flat top rail, and watched Howland.

“I'm not sure what I'm thinking. An idea came to me, and I lost it again.”

“Something to do with this broken section?” Elizabeth moved away from the gap and leaned against the side of the shack.

Howland nodded. “It couldn't have been the kids.”

“Why not?”

“They're not heavy enough, any of them.”

“Even if one gave a good shove?”

Howland shook his head. “Something heavy went through this.”

“Like what?” Elizabeth tilted her head. “A Harley-Davidson? I mean, you don't get something heavy down the catwalk unless it's on wheels, or walks.” She stopped. “Or walks,” she repeated.

“Yeah,” said Howland.

“Someone big and heavy.” She pushed herself away from the side of the shack. “Like Meatloaf.”

“Yeah.” Howland got to his feet and faced her.

Elizabeth looked down and saw a school of small fish swimming around the pilings, nibbling microscopic food that washed past. She could see the bottom through the clear water.

“The whale-watch boat found his body somewhere around Cape Poge.” Howland indicated the water eddying around the pilings. A long streamer of seaweed wafted toward the channel that led into the Sound. “If he'd been killed here before the tide turned, the current would have carried his body out.”

Elizabeth started toward the shack door, then stopped abruptly and turned to Howland. “You know, the night we found Bernie Marble's corpse, Domingo remarked that the tide was about to change.” She gazed across the harbor, past the channel, past the osprey pole, to the dock on the far side.

Howland, one hand on the unbroken section, waited.

Elizabeth continued after a pause. A breeze lifted her hair, flicked the collar on her shirt. “The chief said something that seemed odd at the time.” She jammed both hands in her pockets.

“What did he say?” Howland asked sharply.

“Something like, 'What bad timing.' Words to that effect.”

“Possibly referring to finding Bernie's body before the tide carried it out of the harbor?” Howland said almost to himself. “Two murders, almost the same. Kill the guy, dump the body in the harbor on an outgoing tide.”

“The railing seems like such blatant evidence,” Elizabeth said. “Whatever happened must have been on the spur of the moment.”

“Whoever did it would hardly be likely to fix it,” Howland said. “Of course, it took several days for us to notice it.”

“Domingo would have seen it right away. This is where he comes to pee when no one's looking.”

Howland ignored her and looked again at the underside of the railing. “What possible connection did Meatloaf have to Domingo's harpoon?” He peered into the water.

“Meatloaf was supposed to stop by Domingo's with some papers the day after the call about Joe.”

“That would give Meatloaf access to it. But how did it end up in him?” Howland rubbed his chin. “It throws suspicion on Domingo, whether we like it or not. Do we know he was off-Island?”

“Of course we do,” Elizabeth said hotly. “If Domingo is going to murder someone, it won't be with his own harpoon.”

Howland changed the subject. “We need to make some kind of temporary repair to the railing.”

“I've got some yellow tape.” Elizabeth stepped inside and opened one of the desk drawers. “Until Domingo gets out of jail, I guess I'm in charge. I'll call the town maintenance guy.”

Once they had strung the fluorescent yellow tape across the gap in the railing, Howland returned to the computer, and Elizabeth made her phone call.

“They'll have someone here first thing tomorrow.” She picked up the stack of receipts and dealt them into separate piles.

After a few minutes, Howland said, “Meatloaf had plenty of enemies, but he also had some allies.”

“Victoria thinks Meatloaf killed Bernie. Do you suppose the same person killed them both?” Elizabeth paused to look over her shoulder at Howland.

“Could be. Same modus. Violent death by a nasty weapon. Both bodies in the harbor. Meatloaf worked with Bernie at the hotel. There may be some connection we don't know about.” Howland continued to enter data while he talked.

“At least we won't have to worry about my grandmother anymore. She was convinced Meatloaf was following her.”

Elizabeth went back to the receipts, dealing them onto piles on the desk.

“He probably was.” Howland was quiet for a few minutes. The computer keys clicked softly. Finally, he said, “We have all the more reason to worry about Victoria. Meatloaf was probably trying to frighten her. He didn't try to harm her.”

“My grandmother isn't about to be frightened by some bully.”

“They know that now. Next, they're likely to try to stop her from talking, period.” Howland shifted the monitor slightly to shade it from the glare coming off the water.

“Who is 'they'?” Elizabeth asked. “Victoria thinks Meatloaf and the chief were in cahoots.”

“Quite possibly.” Howland tilted his head at the screen.

“She likes Rocky and Liz Tate.”

He shook his head without looking at her. “Bad choice.”

“She has her doubts about you. Your chocolate caper really threw her.”

“I know.” Howland leaned back in his chair.

“Don't lean in that chair. It can't take it.”

He set the front two legs back on the floor with a thunk.

“What is your problem, anyway?” Elizabeth said. “You think Domingo is faking the funeral trip. That Domingo killed Meatloaf with his own harpoon. You suspect Rocky of poisoning Victoria. Did you test the chocolates? Feed them to your white mice?”

“Very funny.”

“So what did you do with the poisoned chocolates?”

“There was nothing wrong with them.” He looked over at her, hands still held above the keyboard.

“What a surprise. How did you determine that?” Elizabeth had turned in her chair to face him.

“I sent them to the lab for tests.” He continued to stare at the computer screen, hands above the keys.

“Lab?” Elizabeth said. “What lab?”

“The FBI lab in Washington.”

“What?” Elizabeth gathered up the unsorted receipts and stood up. “The FBI lab?” She stared at him. “Not just anybody can get the FBI lab to test a box of chocolates on a whim.”

Howland said nothing. He stared at the screen.

“I've known you since I was a little kid and you were a big wheel in college. But I have no idea what you've been up to since then. I used to watch you play softball in Doane's pasture. I had such a crush on you. I must have been six.”

Howland smiled. “You were a cute kid. I remember you with bare feet and a dirty freckled face. You still look the same.”

“I haven't seen much of you for the past twenty years. Almost thirty years?” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “I don't even know what you do for a living.”

Howland said nothing.

“I figured you retired early. On investments or something,” Elizabeth said. “I mean, you don't spend valuable time designing a computer program for free out of the goodness of your heart. If you have to earn a living, that is.”

Howland smiled. “Domingo thinks it will earn me a million dollars.”

“But you don't. So how do you make your living?” Elizabeth continued to stare at him, one hand holding the receipts, the other hand clenched in a fist on her hip. “What are you, anyway?”

Howland pushed his chair back, and the metal legs grated against the sandy floor. Elizabeth winced at the sound.

He reached into his back pocket, brought out a black leather folder, and flipped it open. On one side was a gold badge, on the other an ID photo. Elizabeth took the folder and studied it.

“DEA.” She looked from the badge to Howland and back at the badge. “Drug Enforcement Administration? What does this mean? What are you doing here? Does Domingo know about this?”

“No.” Howland stood with his hands at his sides.

“Why not? He's a cop. A retired cop.” She handed the folder back to Howland, who put it in his pocket.

Howland said nothing.

“Why not?” Elizabeth insisted. “Why tell me and not him?”

“I wasn't sure I could trust him, that's why.”

“Why trust me and not him?” Elizabeth glared at him.

Howland averted his eyes. “You don't fit the profile.”

“Profile!” Elizabeth sputtered. “Profile! Domingo's a mouthy black guy who puts on a dumb act, so he fits your profile?” Her face reddened, her freckles stood out on her nose. “I'm not a suspected drug pusher, but Domingo is, because of your profile?”

“Hey.” Howland put up both hands as if to ward her off. “Profiles are a valid place to start. Otherwise, the list of persons suspected of drug trafficking would be unwieldy.”

“My God! You sound like a bureaucrat. 'Unwieldy' indeed. You're talking about human beings.”

“Exactly,” Howland said. “Traffickers destroy human beings, fry their brains, impoverish them.” He thrust his hands into his pants pockets. “And you're in a dither because we narrow down a list of suspects by using a profile? You think we're trespassing on people's rights? Get real, Elizabeth.”

' 'Get real'?” Elizabeth flung the pack of receipts she had been holding at Howland. “Get real yourself, you fascist!” Receipts flew onto the counter, splayed out on the floor. One landed on Howland's shoe. He wriggled his toe, and the receipt slid off. Elizabeth wrenched the door open. A gust of wind coming through it tossed the papers into the air, spiraled them down onto the floor in a blizzard of receipts.

She turned. “Fascist!” she said again, and slammed the door behind her. She pounded down the catwalk.

Allison was coming up the catwalk toward her, and Elizabeth brushed past her, spinning her around. Allison was wearing a knit orange halter that exposed her navel, the pierced flesh sporting a gold ring. Her ragged cutoff jeans exposed as much bare skin as a bikini bottom. Elizabeth didn't see her.

“Hey!” Allison said. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Get lost,” Elizabeth snapped.

Allison watched, wide-eyed, as Elizabeth got into her car, started it, and skidded out of the lot. Allison flipped her long curls out of her face with one hand and opened the shack door.

“What's with her?” she said to Howland, who was standing in the middle of the floor.

Howland focused on her suddenly. He pointed to the receipts strewn around the shack. “Pick those up,” he ordered.

“Hey!” Allison said.

“Pick them up,” Howland said again.

“You're not my—”

Howland turned on her. “Do it.”

“But it's not my—”

He glared at her.

“Okay, okay. I'll pick them up.” Allison knelt on the floor and gathered up the loose receipts, scooped them off the counter, and evened them on the desktop.

“Get busy,” Howland growled. “Sort.”

“But—”

“Sort!”

She sat at the desk, her back to Howland, and fiddled with the receipts. He worked furiously at the computer. The only sounds were the soft clicking of his keyboard, the gurgling of the water around the pilings, the cry of the osprey returning to its nest, and the hum of a boat engine in the distance.

After some minutes, Allison turned and said, “I just stopped by to see how Mr. D. is doing. I heard about him being picked up, you know?”

“What do you care about Mr. D.?” Howland said curtly. “As I recall, you have a suit pending against him.”

“Mr. D. didn't do anything funny. He just yelled at me.”

“Tell it to the judge.”

“My aunt Liz filed it. I told her it wasn't nothing.” She bent her head over the piles on the desk. “She made me sign it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Howland said. “Sort the receipts.”

“Am I getting paid for doing this? I'm not supposed to work today, you know?”

“No,” Howland said. “Tell that to your auntie.”

“Her and me don't get along too good,” Allison said. “I don't tell her much.” She worked quietly for a few minutes. “Who's in charge of the harbor today? Mr. D. is in jail, and Elizabeth looks as if she just quit. You in charge?”

“Ask your auntie,” Howland said grimly.

Victoria stopped in front of the Harbor House, perspiring and out of breath. She could see Domingo across the water, leaning over the rail of the shack, smoking. By the time she reached the end of the catwalk, he was waiting for her.

“I don't know when I've been so hot.” Victoria flapped the sides of her light jacket to air herself. “Where's Elizabeth?”

“She's not here yet.” Domingo flicked his cigarette into the water and offered her his arm, which she took.

“I really came to hear about your prison experience.”

“That's the first time I have ever been locked up. It's not something I want to do again, sweetheart.”

“It's such a nice jail.” Victoria stopped to catch her breath. “Whew! Its muggy. How do you manage to look so cool?”

Domingo raised his eyebrows quizzically. His shirt was rumpled. Sweaty dark patches stuck to his back and under his arms. “Cool?” He pulled his shirt away from his stomach.

Across the sound, thunderheads were building over the mainland, their tops towering into the sky, flattened by winds aloft. The heavy cloud bottoms were dark and ominous.

“Not many jails are white clapboard like ours,” Victoria continued. “Black shutters, pink roses growing on a wrought-iron fence. It's really quite a lovely jail.”

“It's a place of incarceration.” Domingo stood aside at the door to let her enter first. “A long time ago, I had a career choice: Be a crook and get rich, or – ”

“You'd have made a good crook.”

“Or become a cop. Cops don't usually get locked up. I didn't want to get locked up, ever.”

“Does the chief think you murdered Meatloaf?” Victoria sat in one of the aluminum chairs and fanned herself with a “Say-No to Drugs!” pamphlet that was lying on the desk.

“The chief suspects I used my own harpoon because no one would think I could be that stupid. He's convinced I conjured up an alibi. Joe, my partner, shot and killed.” Domingo crossed himself, looked skyward, and changed the subject abruptly. “Your buddy shared the holding cell with me.”

“My buddy?” Victoria stopped fanning herself.