Indian Pipes (30 page)

There was a moment’s silence.

“What are you doing up there?” Patience looked up. “Have you found what you hoped to find?”

“To tell the truth,” Victoria said, “I fell asleep.”

“How pleasant,” Patience said. “In the hay, I suppose. Will your granddaughter pick you up?”

“She didn’t know I was coming here,” Victoria said. “She doesn’t get off work until six.”

Patience looked at her wrist. “It’s about half-past five now. Do you need help up there? I’d be interested in seeing what you’ve discovered.”

Victoria’s first reaction was panic. Then she thought about her trap. She hoped Patience wouldn’t smell her fear. She said, as calmly as she could, “That would be nice. It was more of an effort to climb up here than I expected. I wasn’t looking forward to coming down again.”

“You did it before, though, didn’t you, Mrs. Trumbull?” Patience tucked the skirt of her flowing black dress under her belt and put her foot on the first rung of the ladder.

Victoria wanted to call out. To Casey, to Dojan, to Junior. Please help me, she wanted to say. I’m not brave after all. But she held back. It was still possible she had been right, that Patience was not the
killer. If so, it would be embarrassing for everybody if she sprang the trap too soon. And if she was dealing with the cold-blooded killer after all, she might alert her too soon. Either way, Patience would say she had come, as an interested town official, simply to see what Victoria had been talking about. She must convince Patience that she’d told nobody else, and that she’d come alone. She had to trust Casey, Dojan, and Junior to rescue her at exactly the right instant, neither before nor, she shuddered, too late.

She peered over the edge at Patience, who was on the third or fourth rung and climbing steadily.

“I played in this loft when I was a child.” Victoria hoped her voice didn’t sound as quavery as she felt.

“Interesting.” Patience looked up. Her head was below the level of the loft floor. “So you know this barn well.”

“There aren’t too many places left on the Island for barn swallows to nest,” Victoria said.

Patience was halfway up the ladder. Her intense eyes were level with the floor now. Victoria stepped back and picked up her lilac stick, which was lying against a stack of hay. She leaned on it.

Patience reached the top of the ladder and, holding the uprights, stepped onto the floor of the loft. Victoria felt the floor dip slightly under her weight. Patience was breathing heavily. She shook her loose black skirt down around her ankles, around the high black moccasins she wore. In the dim light of the loft, the effect of her pale face framed by her black hair above her black clothes was like a dream of a disembodied head floating in the hay-scented loft with the patter of rain on the roof. Victoria had an instant of terror, as if she were seeing a head on a pike.

Patience’s head looked around and spoke. “What was it you found up here, Mrs. Trumbull?”

Victoria stalled. “It’s interesting. I didn’t want to show it to the police until I had another look.”

“What is it, Mrs. Trumbull?” Patience’s voice had an edge of irritation.

“I don’t think I should tell anyone but the police.”

“You’re being a tease.” Patience smiled and moved toward her. “I don’t think you found anything at all.”

“It won’t mean anything to anyone but the killer or the police.” Victoria leaned on her stick. She had gotten over the momentary fright, but it was replaced with a feeling of unreality, as if she were observing herself from above, playacting with a make-believe killer. She couldn’t quite convince herself it was real. Things would work out all right. Casey would come in time. Dojan wouldn’t let anything happen to her. She smiled up at Patience’s head, and Patience’s eyes stared back at her like the obsidian Indian tears her daughter Amelia had collected out West.

“We seem to be at an impasse,” Patience said.

“Impasse?”

“You aren’t going to tell me what you found?”

“I think the police need to know about it first.”

Patience stepped forward. “You haven’t told them yet ?”

Victoria inched back, toward the partly open window. “I intend to as soon as I get home.” She sensed her smile was annoying Patience, so she wrinkled up her face with a particularly irritating, she hoped, false smile.

“If you found nothing, Mrs. Trumbull, you should not bother the police with your fantasies.”

“I really mustn’t say more,” Victoria said, stepping back again as Patience moved forward. “By the way, I hadn’t realized you drove a red pickup truck.”

Patience stopped and took an audible breath. “What do you mean by that, Mrs. Trumbull?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. I saw a red pickup truck drive away from here the night Hiram Pennybacker was murdered.”

“You couldn’t have seen it.”

“Perhaps Elizabeth and I were mistaken,” Victoria said. “We both commented on that red pickup truck, but who knows?”

“You’re making that up, Mrs. Trumbull. You are lying.”

“I don’t lie,” Victoria said stiffly. “I think it’s time I left now. I have a long walk ahead of me. And I’d better see if I can climb down that ladder.” She smiled at Patience. “I may need your help getting down.”

She heard, rather than saw, the rustle of Patience’s dress, and she was aware that Patience had removed something from her pocket.
This has to be it, Victoria thought. Patience moved toward her. Victoria backed up.

“What are you afraid of, Mrs. Trumbull?”

“Help!” Victoria called out. “Help!” Her voice sounded feeble to her.

“There’s no one to hear you, Mrs. Trumbull.” Patience held something between her hands. Victoria couldn’t see what it was, but she could guess. It must be a garrote, a wire Patience had used to cut Linda’s throat. She put both gnarled hands up to her wrinkled cheeks so her arms protected her throat. “This won’t hurt, Mrs. Trumbull. But it’s necessary. Perhaps you are faking, but I can’t take a chance. You seem to know too much. My grandmother taught me about power. I can’t have you robbing me of power now I’m so close. After all the work I have done.”

She moved forward suddenly. Victoria retreated, and fell into the hay behind her. She quickly lifted her arms again to protect her throat, and kept them there as Patience dropped to her knees. Victoria could see, now, that she held a shiny wire between her hands, as lethal as a knife.

Victoria’s mind raced. Where are they? This is that split second when I need them. The time seemed to move slowly around that split second.

“Help!” she cried out. She never realized how weak her voice was. “Help!”

Victoria saw the wire come nearer and nearer. She held her hands tightly against her face.

Patience let go of a handle on one end of the wire to tug Victoria’s hands away, but before she could grasp the wire again, Victoria’s hands were back, her arms a barrier against that shiny wire. It is the end, after all, Victoria thought. Something had happened to Casey. Casey would come, but it would be too late. There would be no doubt about the killer. Victoria thought about her little joke only an hour before. But I don’t want to die. I want to be around to see what happens next.

She felt the wire press against her arms, felt Patience tug her arms again.

“You can’t fight me forever, Mrs. Trumbull. You’re an old woman.
You don’t have much time left, Mrs. Trumbull. Take your hands down. It won’t hurt you, I assure you.”

Victoria felt the floor yield beneath her, heard a howl that sent prickles down her back. Patience was lifted up, and her screams joined the howl, wild animal sounds, the likes of which Victoria never wanted to hear again.

Victoria felt more movements on the floor. She had closed her eyes with Patience’s scream. Now she opened them again and saw Casey and Junior Norton.

“Put her down, Dojan,” Casey said. “Put her down. Victoria’s safe now. I’ll cuff her. Put her down.”

Junior bent over Victoria, his drooping eyes concerned.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Trumbull?”

“Of course,” Victoria murmured, sitting up. She turned over so she could get to her knees. Now that it was over, she started to tremble. The trembling extended from her stomach, where it started, to her arms and legs and hands. Her teeth chattered.

“Dojan, help me get Mrs. Trumbull down that ladder. She’s had a tough time.”

Junior retrieved her walking stick, and she took it in shaking hands. “You are one hell of a brave woman,” he said.

“You heard me call out?” Her teeth were chattering so that she could get only one word out at a time.

“Everybody in West Tisbury must of heard you. They probably heard you up to Alley’s.”

“Get Victoria down safely, Junior. Then come back for this…” Casey jerked her head at Patience, whose face still looked disembodied. She writhed and spat. Casey had handcuffed Patience with her back to one of the barn’s upright posts, hands behind her. Together, Junior and Dojan carried Victoria tenderly down the ladder.

“I’ll get you for this, Victoria Trumbull!” Patience screamed. “I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do on earth.”

C
HAPTER
35

The northeast wind swirled rain around the front of Alley’s store. It shook early-changing leaves onto the road, where they lay flat and yellow and slick.

Joe parked his pickup across the road in the usual spot under the elm, tousled Taffy’s ears, settled his cap on his forehead, and darted across the road, looking both ways.

“Nasty day,” he greeted Lincoln Sibert, who was sitting on the bench next to Donald Schwartz. “Where’s Sarah at?”

“Who knows? Lotta stuff going on up to Aquinnah.”

“What’s the latest?” Joe asked.

“You heard what happened yesterday?” Lincoln said.

“Couldn’t tell much from the scanner. Something over to Burkhardt’s place, I take it.”

“Here she comes now.” Donald looked up as a Jeep pulled into Alley’s parking place. He stood up. “May as well spring for a cup of coffee.”

Sarah, covered by an oversize yellow foul-weather jacket, dashed from her car to the shelter of the porch. She threw back her hood, unzipped the jacket, and shook off the beaded rainwater.

“Ugly out there. Where’s Donald? I thought I saw him.”

Donald appeared at the door with two steaming cups. “You don’t take cream or sugar, right?”

“Right. Thanks.” Sarah reached for the paper cup and took a sip. “Ugh!” She made a face. “This stuff must have sat all afternoon.”

“Grow hair on your chest,” Joe said.

Lincoln moved to give Sarah room on the bench. She sat next to him and her yellow slicker dripped water onto the slats of the bench and the porch floor beneath.

“So what’s happening?” Joe said after everyone had settled back
into position—Joe leaning against the porch post, Lincoln next to Sarah, and Donald propped against the rusty red Coke cooler.

Sarah studied her fingernails, which she’d recently painted black. “The usual,” she said brightly.

“Oh shit.” Joe turned his back to her and spat off to one side. “Ain’t you cute.”

“All we know is what we hear on the scanner,” Lincoln said, “and that’s not much. Something big must of happened last night. Nobody’s saying a word.”

“Well.” Sarah drew out the word. “I guess you heard Mrs. Trumbull almost got killed?”

Joe stopped chewing. “No shit! The old lady?”

Sarah nodded.

“What happened?” Lincoln crossed one ankle over the other, and put his hands in his pockets.

“She set a trap for the killer and caught guess who?”

“Come on, come on.” Joe gestured with both hands.

“Patience.” She looked around at the three men who were frozen in position. “Patience VanDyke. Tribal chair.”

“Yeah, yeah. We know who she is,” Donald said.

“Patience?” Lincoln said.

“She
killed Burkhardt?” Donald asked.

“Burkhardt and Hiram. And Linda.” Sarah smirked with satisfaction. “And almost got Mrs. Trumbull.”

Lincoln uncrossed his ankles. “Why?”

“I always thought she was a nasty bitch, but I didn’t see her killing anybody,” Donald said.

“Well, she did.”

“What for? She had everything going for her.”

“It looked that way. Only she was stealing from the tribe to buy all that property, like millions of dollars. She lined up everybody who owed her little favors and they were all ready to vote in favor of a casino.”

“Send her property values through the roof.” Donald swirled the remaining coffee in his cup and watched it eddy.

“So who blew the whistle—Burkhardt?” Joe said.

“Sort of,” Sarah said. “He told her the shipping people were offering
him more money than she was paying him for septic permits. He was about to ruin her.”

“So she said to Burkhardt, ‘Why don’t you come with me, honey, I’ve changed my mind, we can look over a nice site for a dock,’ “ Joe said.

“And killed him there.” Donald sipped the last of his coffee and folded the cup in on itself.

“She thought she’d killed him. But he crawled up the cliff to that rosebush, you know? Where they found him?”

A car went past, its windshield wipers slashing, its tires swishing, trailing a long motorboat wake.

“Anybody ever find out why it was so important he had to get up that cliff?” Lincoln asked.

Sarah looked up. “He shoved an envelope under the rosebush.”

“Well?” Joe beckoned with both hands. “Go on.”

“It was a letter from the state archaeologist saying there’s an Indian burial site on his property.”

All four exchanged puzzled glances.

“What’s the big deal?” Donald mused.

Sarah shrugged. “Guess we’ll never know.”

In the distance below Brandy Brow there was a low rumbling growl.

“Jee-sus Christ. I forgot all about the motorcycle rally,” Joe said. “Surprised anybody’s out. They’ll be drowned rats, day like today.”

“Not much fun,” Donald agreed.

“All Burkhardt’s to-do over nothing.” Lincoln shook his head. “Washed out. What was his trouble with them, anyway?”

“Noise.” Sarah stuck her forefingers in her ears.

“It had to have been more than that,” Lincoln said.

The rumble came closer, and they waited to see what would appear around the bend at the top of the hill.