Deadly Nightshade (26 page)

Victoria blew her nose.

The chief glared at Howland.

“He decided he could easily explain his high living by capitalizing, so to speak, on his software invention. Few people understand university policies, few people would question his involvement with the university, and few people are going to wonder how lucrative an astrophysics software program can be.”

He glanced at Domingo, who was playing with his Zippo, snapping it open and shut.

Victoria shifted on the couch, crossed one ankle over the other, put her handkerchief back in her pocket.

“You're not catching cold, are you, sweetheart?” Domingo looked over at her with concern.

She shook her head.

“To continue,” Howland said. “Our professor needed three things: a depository, where he could keep his goods temporarily until he could move them to their point of sale; a means of transporting them safely off-Island; and, most important, a team he could trust.” He looked up at the chief. “Are you still with me?”

The chief lowered his head and looked at his clasped hands.

A cardinal flashed by in the garden outside. Victoria heard the melodic call of a Carolina wren. A car passed on the road, and her view of it was chopped up by Domingo's tall wooden fence.

Howland continued. “Our professor needed to bring his goods into a place where the record keeping was haphazard, and where no one asked questions.” He looked from the chief to Domingo. “Oak Bluffs was ideal. The harbor takes in half a million dollars over a three-month period. A lot of boaters pay cash. The former harbormaster had a little cash slush fund he used to supplement his salary, pay for favors, that sort of thing.”

Domingo cranked the window open slightly.

“Our professor did his homework,” Howland continued. “He found, to his delight, that one of the town's selectmen and the two owners of the major hotel—one owner a convicted criminal on probation, the other the town's police chief—were benefiting from the sloppy management of the harbor.

“Now our professor hoped, ideally, to distance himself as much as possible from day-to-day operations of his business. So he enlisted this particular selectman to act as his right-hand person, to keep records and deal with subordinates.” He stopped talking. “You still with me?”

“Go on,” the chief growled.

“Our story's hotel was situated at the head of the harbor, and it was the only place where showers were available for boaters. What could be better, our professor must have said to himself. The imported goods came in small packages, one kilo each, something the size of two pounds of butter. What could be simpler than asking his Caribbean adventurers, sailors who were about to take their first hot freshwater showers in some time, to carry a small parcel into the shower room and 'accidentally' leave it behind when they were through. The parcels were small enough to be unnoticed among towels, soap, and clean and dirty clothes. Later, a trusted minion could retrieve the parcels when he—or she—cleaned the shower room. The minion took the parcels to the hotel's lost and found, conveniently near the shower rooms. This way, the minion was absolved of any responsibility for taking part in the business transactions. From the lost and found, the parcels found their way to the hotel's hamper for soiled laundry. Probably a specially marked hamper, wouldn't you say, Chief?”

The chief said nothing. He picked at a loose flap of skin on his finger.

Howland went on. “The goods were indeed laundered. The soiled linen would then go to Boston, taken by a trustworthy, low-echelon member of the team, and be returned to the hotel as clean towels, sheets, and, voilà! Laundered money.”

Victoria laid her right arm along the back of the couch.

The chief continued to pick at his finger.

“In addition,” Howland went on, “the selectmen had hired what they thought was a dumb black guy who would take orders from them without question.” He turned to look at Domingo and his mouth turned down in a smile. “To go on: In our story, the imaginary selectman takes her—or his—orders from our professor. How can our professor guarantee her—or his—loyalty? That's critical, don't you think?” He paused and looked at the chief, who said nothing. “I myself can think of several ways. One, or a combination, would do the trick. Affection, greed, and fear come to mind. Or a certain sense of adventure. I'm sure you can think of others.”

The chief unfolded his hands and looked at his watch.

Howland smiled. “We're taking your valuable time, aren't we? Shall I stop?”

“Jesus Christ,” the chief said. “Go on.”

“Why kill Bernie Marble?” Howland continued. “We can only guess that Marble began to realize how much money was involved. He may have felt he was being shortchanged. Perhaps Bernie got greedy. Maybe he threatened to divulge this elegant scheme. Bernie was already on probation for his behavior to a female employee of the hotel. Had that gotten out of hand?”

Chief Medeiros shifted in his chair. “What do you expect me to do about all this garbage you're feeding me?”

“Ah!” Howland said. “As with much fiction, this is grounded in reality. Now let me tell you about Bernie's death. Tell me if I'm mistaken on some fine point. This was—let's see—about two weeks ago now.”

He turned suddenly to face Chief Medeiros and his voice no longer had its polite edge.

“Okay, Medeiros. You summoned Meatloaf to your office at the Harbor House, told him you couldn't talk on the phone, 'Get your ass in here,' you said.”

The chief stared at Howland.

“Meatloaf lumbered into that office of yours that looks out over the parking lot in back of the hotel, right?”

The chief said nothing.

“Meatloaf was probably breathing heavily and sweating, although, as I recall, it was not a hot afternoon. He plopped himself into that wooden armchair in front of your desk where the light from your window must have shone in his face. A cop technique, right?”

The chief stared at Howland.

“I can imagine the conversation,” Howland continued. “You probably made him cool his heels for a long time. Then you leaned forward across the desk. 'I'm having a slight problem with Bernie,' you may have said. I suppose Meatloaf, who was sure you'd found out something he didn't want you to know, was relieved. Just as you intended. Maybe you said something like 'He seems to have forgotten who's boss. He's getting greedy. Wants a bigger cut.' I can hear you now, playing the good-cop/bad-cop routine all by yourself, and Meatloaf, who was not the brightest, fell for it, didn't he?”

The chief looked down at his hands. Domingo sat motionless. Victoria shifted slightly on the couch.

“Meatloaf couldn't see your face, backlighted the way it undoubtedly was. He had to guess how he was supposed to react, probably squinting into the light, trying to see your expression. 'I'd say he's had a pretty generous cut,' you may have said.

“'Damn right. Want me to talk to him?' Is that what Meatloaf said? Did he make a fist of his right hand and smack it into the palm of his left? I've seen him do that. He probably glared like a thug for your benefit.

“Then I can imagine you saying, 'He thinks he can cut a couple of middlemen out of the operation, delusions of grandeur.'

“I'll bet Meatloaf agreed with you, 'Not good', or something like that.

“To really hit home, you might have said, 'Bernie's letting his prick do his thinking for him. Not smart in this business'.”

The chief glanced nervously at Victoria, who was studying the backs of her hands.

“You undoubtedly reminded Meatloaf of the way Bernie bought off one woman who threatened to file charges against him. Followed her all the way to Ireland, right? You said to Meatloaf, 'We don't need this kind of publicity.'

“Were Meatloaf's eyes watering from the bright light? Probably. You planned it that way, didn't you? I know that gesture he had, reaching into his pocket for that blue bandanna, lifting his glasses, and wiping his eyes.”

The room was still except for a fly buzzing at the sliding door. Sounds filtered in from outdoors. Two boys rode past the house on bicycles, calling to each other and laughing. The chief sat motionless.

“'He thinks we need him more than he needs us,' I suppose you said. 'Plenty of other places to store stuff. They don't have to use this hotel.' The way I imagine it,” Howland continued, “you stood up, stuck your hands into your pockets, and probably jingled change, the way you do. Did you look out the window at the parking lot? From your office, you can see the Camp Meeting Ground, can't you? Quite a contrast, those quaint gingerbread houses painted in pastel colors, the oak leaves rustling in the breeze.

“You probably stood at the window for some time, letting Meatloaf wonder. Did you rock back and forth on those squeaky leather boots of yours? Good way to make someone nervous, isn't it? I can hear you saying, once you decided Meatloaf was softened up, 'He needs to be taught a lesson. We need to take care of him—permanently.' Did you say that?”

The chief swallowed. His neck quivered.

“I suppose you told Meatloaf that you were meeting Bernie at the East Chop dock around dark. Did you check the tide table? Figure out that dead high tide was around seven-thirty? I'm sure you did.”

Victoria noticed that the chief had crossed his feet and was rubbing one against the other. Except for that, the muscle in his jaw, and the pulse in his temple, he was motionless. Domingo, too, was absolutely still.

“I suppose you told him to scull a dinghy from the dock by the liquor store to the East Chop dock, and to get there before seven-thirty. You didn't want any noise, did you? Maybe you told him he could use the exercise.” Howland smiled. “Did you tell him to wait at the foot of the ladder until you needed him?”

The chief said nothing. The fly buzzed and bumped against the glass door.

“I suppose Meatloaf was wearing those pointed Italian shoes he was so vain about. You probably gave him that steely cop look and asked him if he could get his fat self up the ladder in a hurry, right?”

The chief said nothing.

“Then you must have jerked your head at him. 'Okay,' I imagine you said, 'get outta here. We never had this discussion.'”

Howland stopped. Domingo's clock rang six bells. Victoria checked her watch.

“Eleven o'clock, sweetheart,” Domingo said.

“Have you heard enough?” Howland asked the chief.

“Shit,” said the chief, then turned to Victoria. “Excuse me, ma'am.”

“Go on, Howland,” Victoria said.

“I imagine when Meatloaf left, you got on the phone to Bernie. 'Bernie,' you probably said, 'how's it going?' And while Bernie talked, I'll bet you doodled those square boxes on your desk calendar, right?”

The chief stared without expression at Howland.

“How did you get him to agree to meet you, Medeiros? You tell him one of the couriers was getting too big for his britches? Tell him you were not sure who? That you figured he was taping goods to the underside of the dock to come back for them in his own sweet time? I can see you now, doodling, probably connecting those boxes you'd drawn with lines so they looked three-dimensional.”

The chief blinked.

“I've seen your calendar, Medeiros. Boxes with arrows shooting into them. You probably suggested that the courier would be at the dock at high tide so he could reach the underside of the dock, didn't you? Seven-thirty, you said. Then, to allay suspicion—Bernie was a suspicious guy, right?—you probably said you weren't sure it would be that night. 'We may have to wait a day or two,' I'm sure you said. Then, to make it seem like a good-time junket, you told him you'd bring a bottle, didn't you? Said you'd pick him up in the cruiser.

“I can see you now. You slammed the phone down and turned your chair to the window. Were those two kids riding their pink-and-lavender bicycles down in the parking lot? Or did you even see them? You didn't want to be reminded of normal did you?”

The chief shook his head and looked at his hands, which were still clasped in front of him on the table.

“Everything went according to plan, didn't it? At least until you learned that Victoria Trumbull had heard you and Meatloaf, had heard Bernie's screams, and found his body before the tide took it out to sea.” Howland stopped and waited for the chief to say something.

Medeiros continued to look down at his hands.

“Back to my story. You and Bernie went together in the police cruiser to the dock. You took along a bottle of Caribbean rum one of your couriers gave you.”

The chief looked up in surprise.

“You didn't know we found the bottle, did you?”

The chief was silent.

“I suppose he put up a fight, didn't he?” Howland said. “Kicked out at you. But you've been trained to kill. Vietnam, the Marines. Or did you learn at police school?”

The chief stood up and slapped his hand on the table.

“I don't want to hear any more of this shit.” He reached under his chair and snatched his cap. “I don't know where you're getting it from. Straight out of some TV show.”

“First-degree murder carries life,” Domingo said quietly.

“No one can pin anything on me.” The chief turned to the door. “Your eyewitness is another figment of your imagination. There was nobody around. Nobody.” He started to open the door.

“The witness saw Bernie break the bottle against the piling,” Domingo said. “Saw you pull the knife on him. Saw Meatloaf hold him. Saw what you did next.”

“Meatloaf did it, not me.”

“The witness heard you order Meatloaf to drop Bernie's pants. Saw Meatloaf cover Bernie's mouth with his arm when he started to scream.”

“Oh yeah?” The chief paused in the half-opened doorway.

“The witness saw what you did.” Domingo stopped and looked uncomfortably at Victoria, who was regarding the chief with disgust.

“I know what he did to that man,” Victoria said. “You can stop trying to shelter me.” She pushed herself off the couch and pointed to the chief as if he were in fifth grade. “Come back in this minute. Shut the door. And sit down and listen.”

She stood until the chief obeyed her.

“You'll listen to the rest of this nasty tale. You should be drawn and quartered. Instead, you're getting a chance you don't deserve.” She sat down again. “I thoroughly disapprove of giving him that chance,” she said to Howland.