Shooting Star (12 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

BOOK: Shooting Star
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Ten minutes later, Teddy, clean and combed and wearing jeans and a T-shirt, both several sizes too large, sat in front of a large plate of bacon and eggs, and toyed with his food.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Victoria’s recollection of small boys was of their large appetites.
“I guess.” Teddy took a dutiful bite of eggs and chewed and chewed.
“Don’t you feel well, Teddy? It’s no wonder, after all you’ve been through.”
“I’m okay,” said Teddy, resting his head on his hand.
“I was at the theater when you and Peg left. What happened?” She passed him the basket of toast.
“Peg let me off at my house to get my bike.”
Victoria nodded.
“I picked up my comic books, too.”
“Yes.”
“I rode into her driveway and she screamed, ‘Run, Teddy, run!’ I never heard anybody scream like that. And I ran.”
“That was the right thing to do,” said Victoria.
“Maybe I could have saved her.”
“No. She wanted you to run, she told you to run, and you did what she asked. Go on,” said Victoria. “What happened next?”
 
 
When he’d heard Peg cry out, Teddy told Victoria, he had wheeled his bicycle around. One of his comic books slipped off the top of the pile in his basket and hit the ground with a splat. He pedaled as hard as he could down the road off the point. Where three roads forked off, he paused, out of breath, heart pounding. He set one foot on the ground and looked over his shoulder. Car headlights jounced down the road behind him. Quickly he turned left onto the shellfish hatchery road, which dead-ended at Lagoon Pond. The road was only about a quarter-mile long, but he hid in the dense shrubbery to the side.
He saw a light-colored car turn off Job’s Neck Road and head toward town. The Lears’ car, he thought at first, then realized it was not the Lears after all. He didn’t recognize the car.
 
Teddy set his uneaten toast next to his plate.
“What happened then?” Victoria asked softly.
“Go on, Teddy,” said Victoria.
“My teacher told us to call nine-one-one whenever you’re scared like that,” Teddy said.
“But you couldn’t, could you? You’d have to find a telephone. What about your neighbors?”
“They weren’t there. They’re mostly August people and their houses are still closed up. I thought about going to the Cohens’ house, but Mrs. Cohen died last year.”
“And Mr. Cohen is in the play and was still at rehearsal.”
 
Teddy told Victoria he had decided to go back to his own house and call Peg from there. Suppose Peg had screamed because someone was coming after
him
? He’d thought about the car leaving the point. Maybe someone had kidnapped her.
Maybe he shouldn’t go back to his house after all.
Yes, he’d decided. He’d sneak up like a Ranger. His dad had been a Ranger. He’d pretend someone was out there trying to murder Peg, and he, Teddy, would arrive in time to capture the bad guy. He’d tie him up and call the police and while they were on the way, he’d rescue Peg, who would be gagged and tied up, sitting on a kitchen chair with her hands behind her back. He’d take out his pocketknife and cut the ropes, and she’d be grateful and tell his mother, who would tell his dad. The police would be amazed that he, Teddy Vanderhoop, eight years old, was so brave. And his parents would be so proud of him. His mother would forget about her boyfriend, and his mother
and dad would get together again and he wouldn’t have to move to California and be an actor.
 
Teddy paused and Victoria said, “You
are
brave, Teddy. Your parents and the police will think so, too.” She poured orange juice and moved the glass toward Teddy. “Go on,” said Victoria.
 
He had pretended this was only a game, he told Victoria. He reached the rail fence that marked his property. The lights were off at Peg’s. But lights were on in his house. He didn’t remember turning them on. Maybe Peg had escaped to his place and was looking for him. Maybe the bad guy had left Peg tied up and was stealing the TV from his house. A burglar, maybe.
The game had moved in a direction Teddy didn’t much like. He’d leaned his bike against the fence and, crouching beneath overhanging tree branches, he crept toward his house. This was like the time he and Joey snuck up on Joey’s sister’s slumber party, hoping to hear the girls scream. Exciting, but scary, because Joey’s father might catch them.
Who might catch him this time?
He had lowered himself to his stomach, and, slithering through the shrubbery, reached the big beech tree next to his house. He kept the tree trunk between him and the lighted windows.
 
Teddy paused again, lifted the glass of orange juice and set it down without drinking any.
“I remembered then I
did
turn the lights on, Mrs. Trumbull. To get my comic books. My mother always tells me to turn off the lights, but I must have forgot.”
“Go on,” said Victoria.
 
From where he’d stood, he explained to Victoria, the windows were too high for him to see in. The light from the windows shone on the tree. He jumped up and caught a low branch in his
hands, swung his legs up, and hoisted himself onto it. Now he could see into the dining room. If he moved forward on the branch, he would be able to look through the archway into the living room and kitchen.
 
Teddy stopped talking.
“What did you see?” Victoria felt as though she was prying into Teddy’s private life. But this was police business and she was trying to help him. She hoped she was using proper interrogation techniques.
“Someone opening drawers in my mother’s desk.”
“Could you tell who it was?”
“I guess it was a man, but it could have been a girl. He was all in black. I could only see his lower half.”
“Then what happened?”
“My foot hit a big dead branch.”
Victoria recalled the fresh scar on the beech tree next to Teddy’s house. “And the branch broke.” She leaned forward.
“It made the loudest snap I ever heard in my life.”
“And the intruder heard the sound?”
“He came to the window and looked out.” Teddy shivered.
Victoria got up and put a sweater around his shoulders.
“I’m not cold, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“I know you’re not.”
“The burglar wore something over his face, a black hat pulled down.”
“Like a ski mask?” asked Victoria.
“I guess. He called out in a weird voice, like a girl’s, ‘Is that you, Teddy?’” Teddy closed his eyes. “He said, ‘I’ve got something for you, Teddy, a video game. Come on in, and I’ll show you!’” Teddy pulled the sweater around his shoulders.
“And then what?”
“He said, ‘You’re playing a game, aren’t you? I’ll come out and we can both play.’ Then he went toward the back door.”
 
 
Teddy’s thoughts had spun around, he told Victoria. Maybe the burglar had a gun and would shoot him. Or capture him. What had happened to Peg? He had to get out of the tree. Bullets would reach higher than he could climb. Should he go to Peg’s and rescue her? No, he had to find a telephone and dial nine-one-one. He had to get to his bike, and quick. He dropped off the tree limb and landed on his knees and hands. He crouched and darted under the overhanging branches, plunged through the underbrush, and, just as he heard the back door slam, he saw the glint of starlight on the metal handlebars of his bike.
 
“You could hear the back door shut?”
Teddy nodded. “I heard a thump and something fell.” He looked up. “It sounded like the big box where I keep my Legos. My mother is always telling me someone is going to trip over the box and hurt themselves, and I guess he did.”
Victoria laughed. “That was one time it’s lucky you didn’t obey your mother. What happened next?”
“The bad guy hollered …” Teddy didn’t finish the sentence.
“Something rude?”
“Yes. I figured maybe he’d broken a leg and that would keep him from running.” Teddy closed his eyes.
 
The split-rail fence had shown up as a lighter shadow in the night, Teddy said. Now he could see his bike clearly. He scrambled over the top of the fence, and when he reached the bike, turned it around and ran until it was going fast. He hopped on and forced his feet to turn the pedals faster and faster. Then he raced down the road that led off the point.
 
He gazed at Victoria with tired eyes. “I didn’t know where to go,” he said. “I thought maybe I could borrow a dinghy and row out to my father’s boat.”
“That would be a long way to row.”
“I was scared that the burglar might have a gun, and he would see me in the dinghy and shoot me.”
Victoria nodded.
“I was scared to go to my dad, anyway.”
“Scared?”
“It’s my fault they’re getting a divorce.”
Victoria shook her head. “Grown-ups have problems, and the problems have nothing to do with their children. It’s not your fault. So what made you decide to come to me?”
He looked up at her again, his eyes meeting her deep-set, ones. “You’re my friend.”
“I am,” said Victoria, and smiled.
“Do you want to hear how I found Sandy, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I decided to take the lane that ends at the Vineyard Haven-Edgartown Road, then the bike path to your house. Well, when I got to the turnoff to the lane I heard this moan.”
“That must have been frightening.”
“I was really scared. I didn’t know what it was.”
“And it turned out to be Sandy.”
Teddy nodded. “I could tell he was hurting, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“So you rode to my house with Sandy in your arms?”
“I put him in the bike basket on top of my comic books. I knew we could hide in your attic, Mrs. Trumbull. I thought it would be okay to sneak a little bit of food.”
“Under the circumstances, yes.”
“I knew Sandy would have to go to the bathroom. Me, too.” Teddy blushed. “Sandy could use old newspapers and I could wait until no one was home.” He looked at Victoria, still blushing.
“Go on,” she said.
“Then, after I picked up Sandy, I heard another car coming off the Job’s Neck Road.”
“Did you know whose it was?”
“Not real well. I thought maybe the first car was the bad guy’s helper, and the second car was the bad guy.”
“That was a long bike ride to my house in the dark.”
“I had to wait, because I saw a police car in your driveway. When the lights went out and the police car went away, I sneaked into your house with Sandy. I was almost at the stairs when something hissed. I thought a ghost was after me. But it was only your cat.”
“You needn’t worry. There are
no
ghosts in this house.”
“He made cat-fight noises. I was afraid he’d wake up Elizabeth.”
“McCavity is a good guard cat,” said Victoria. “Once you made a bed for Sandy and got him settled, you came downstairs and found the hot dogs?”
“I hope that wasn’t stealing?”
Victoria smiled. “Where were you when the girls came upstairs? They saw Sandy’s bed.”
“I built a cave under the big bed.”
“It’s very high, isn’t it?”
“It was starting to thunder, and I’m scared of lightning.”
“And that’s where you were hiding when they came up to shut the windows.”
While Victoria listened to Teddy, and while Teddy picked at his food, Dearborn was still at the theater, on the telephone again, hair askew, a newly opened bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the desk beside him, his coffee cup in one hand.
Becca paced back and forth, reading her lines for the bride of Frankenstein aloud from the play script. She stopped when she reached Dearborn’s desk. He had just set the phone down. “The matinee is sold out, Becca. Standing room only, and most of that’s sold out, too.”
“Marvelous,
mon cher
!” She lifted her script and resumed her pacing. “‘Something whispers to me!’ I’ll try that again. ‘Something
whispers
to me …’ la, la, la, ‘but I
will
not
listen
to such a
sinister
voice.’”
Dearborn ran his fingers through his hair. “Who am I going to get to play the two parts—Clerval and the Arctic explorer—on such short notice. Scott picked a hell of a time to die.”
Becca lowered her script. “What about our nephew?”
“He’s got his hands full with the monster part. His makeup alone takes almost an hour to put on. I thought you couldn’t stand him?”
“Not
Roderick,
darling.
George.
He’s perfect. Yale Drama School. He was at the opening last night.”
“He’ll never agree. He and his mother …”
“Pooh, darling. George is a professional. He won’t let a little thing like a family squabble keep him from the stage.” Becca set down her play script, clasped her hands under her chin, and began pacing again. “And such an opportunity.
Two
roles he can
add to his credits. He won’t even have to learn his lines.” She stopped in front of Dearborn’s desk again, and tapped her lacquered nail on his blotter. “Call him. This minute.”
 
George hung up the phone with a broad smile.
Ruth came into the study, where her son was sitting in her armchair. “Who was that, George? You seem pleased.”
“I am pleased.” George bounced to his feet. “Uncle Dearborn has asked me to take over Bob Scott’s roles—two roles—for the matinee this afternoon.”
Ruth took a deep breath, and let it out. “Absolutely not.” Her face turned bright pink. “Don’t you dare accept.” Her expression was stormy. “That … that … that
filth
!”
“Don’t you see, Mom, this puts us in a great position.”
“What I see, George, is Uncle Dearborn and Aunt Rebecca manipulating you and making a fool of me. And sabotaging a serious play.”
“It’s too late for sabotage. Uncle Dearborn has already turned the play into a farce.”
Ruth’s face got pinker still. “Victoria Trumbull put an incredible amount of thought into editing out the sentimentality and the sensationalism of the book and focusing on Mary Shelley’s all-too-modern message.”
George shook his head. “Too late, Mom. The play’s sold out. After all that buildup, the audience won’t stand for ‘serious message.’” He made quote marks in the air with his fingers.
Ruth set her hands on her hips. “He was drunk … drunk!”
“Fire him when the run is over.” George put his arm around her shoulder. “You can’t fight it. Look at the reviews.” He flipped through the newspapers and pointed. “‘High camp!’ ‘Summer farce!’ ‘Frankenstein run sold out!’ ‘Engaging comedy!’” He flipped the newspapers back onto the study table. “Trust me. I’ll get even with those two yet.”
Ruth wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold.
“Besides, if I’ve got a part in a play—two parts in a play,” George grinned, “my advisor won’t hassle me when I return late to school. By the way, I meant to tell you about the costume barn.”
But Ruth had turned her back on her son and left the room.
 
Victoria gave Teddy a new toothbrush, and he scrubbed his teeth while she folded his clean clothes.
“I’ve got to tell some of your story to the police, Teddy,” said Victoria. “You may be the only eyewitness to the killer.”
Teddy made a gurgling sound.
“You’re very brave. Much braver than I would have been.”
“Really?”
“No question about it. I promised you I’d keep your secret and make sure you’re safe, and I will. But I’ve got to talk to the police about what you saw. Will you trust me?”
“Can I still stay here?”
“For a while, at least.”
 
“People!” Dearborn clapped his hands. “People! Your attention. There’s work to be done, and we have only four hours before curtain.”
Becca looked up from her script and slipped off her reading glasses, “We have a sold-out house, cast. For a matinee!”
“Double-time,” said Dearborn, “let’s get with it. I’ll skip over my part as Frankenstein.” He waved his script at the players. “Now, George, for your benefit, the play starts, like Shelley’s book, after Frankenstein has been picked off an ice floe in the Arctic Ocean.”
George wet his thumb and turned pages of his script.
“Frankenstein is suffering from hypothermia. You put him to bed and summon a crew member to bring him hot gruel. You sit by his bedside—that’s about all you need to do—and listen sympathetically while he tells you his story.”
“Got it,” said George.
“You have adequate time to change from your captain’s uniform.”
“I thought I was the explorer?” said George.
“In Mrs. Trumbull’s adaptation, the explorer is the captain. You’ll have plenty of time to change into the Henry Clerval costume. Clerval doesn’t appear until almost the end of Act Two, after the monster begs me to create a mate for him.”
“Righto,” said George.
“At that point, you see, I’m in a quandary. Shall I create a mate? Release into the world another monster like the first? Will the couple have children? What will the children be like? You can see why the play is an audience pleaser.”
“End of Act Two?” asked George.
“I, Frankenstein, have almost completed the female monster when I have second thoughts and tear her to pieces. The monster goes berserk and, to get even with me, strangles you, my only remaining friend.”
“Do I know about the mate in the making?” asked George.
Dearborn shook his head. “You know only that your friend Victor is suffering.”
“Clerval is not to be played as a comic, then?”
“No, no, no. You play both parts straight, as Mrs. Trumbull intended, the explorer and Henry Clerval. Her adaptation is entirely serious. She points up the pathos of the unfortunate monster, his innocence, the injustices heaped on him.” Dearborn looked up and smiled. “But last night’s audience read into the entirely serious lines of some actors a certain dark humor. And as actors, we must give the audience what it wants, correct?”
“Yes, Uncle Dearborn,” said George, turning pages.
“After the monster strangles you, you’ll be dragged off stage by stagehands in the blackout, and then you’ll have time to change back into the uniform the explorer wears.”
George thumbed more pages. “Near the end of Act Three.”
“Actually, the very end. In the book, as you know, Frankenstein was rowing a cake of ice across the Arctic Ocean in pursuit of the monster when he was picked up by the Arctic explorer’s ship. In the end, of course, he dies from the effects of exposure.”
George said, “Of course.”
Dearborn smiled. “You see, not only difficult to stage, but there’s a certain unintended humor in the scene.” He cleared his throat. “On my—Frankenstein’s—deathbed, I exact a promise from you, the explorer—that you will
kill
the monster.”
George looked up innocently from the script. “So then I get to shoot Cousin Roderick?”
Dearborn cleared his throat again. “In the book, the monster capers across the ice pack, howling in frustration and rage because his creator has thwarted him by dying. But in Mrs. Trumbull’s adaptation, you will take the gun Frankenstein left beside his bed, the gun with which he intended to kill the monster, and yes, you will shoot Roderick. The monster.” Dearborn looked around at the small cast gathered around him. “Any questions, people? Any comments for George, here?”
“Did somebody fix the porthole, Uncle Dearborn?” asked Roderick.
Dearborn looked at his other nephew over the top of his glasses. “It was enlarged to accommodate you.”
“That was a wonderful scene. We should keep it,” said Becca, slapping her hand on her copy of the script.
“I could have been hurt,” said Roderick.
“I noticed you were limping,” said Becca. “Did you stumble into something on stage?”
“No.” Roderick turned away. “I tripped on a rock.”
George raised a hand. “Is the gun loaded with blanks?”
“Naturally,” Dearborn said. “Our stage manager, Nora Epstein, has seen to that. Other questions? Fine.” He clapped his hands. “Quickly, quickly.” He looked at his watch. “Take it from Act One, Scene One. We open with you, George, by my bedside.”
“Splendid, splendid,” said Dearborn, getting up from his—Frankenstein’s—deathbed at the end of the run-through. He looked at his watch again. “You have three-quarters of an hour, people, before you need to get back to the theater. Don’t wander too far away.”
George went backstage to the prop table, where he examined the gun he would be using to kill Roderick. The gun looked both real and lethal, and when he picked it up, it was heavy.
He checked his own watch. Enough time to get to Shirley’s Hardware and back before getting in costume for the matinee.
 
The morning was bright. The previous day’s thunderstorm had cleared the air. Victoria walked the quarter-mile to the West Tisbury police station, and when she got there, Casey was at her computer. She looked up.
“Hey, Victoria. Nice day.”
“Would you mind taking me to the state police barracks?”
Casey swiveled around. “Now what?”
“I have to talk to Sergeant Smalley.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s the state police who are investigating the murder, isn’t it?”
“What’s up, Victoria?”
Victoria sat down in her usual chair. “Since the state police are in charge, I’m trying to go through proper channels. If you won’t take me …”
“I suppose you’ll hitchhike.” Casey got up with a sigh. “I’ll drive you. I wasn’t getting anywhere with this awful Island-wide computer network, anyway. Do you intend to tell me what this is all about?”
“I can’t,” said Victoria. “I’ve given someone my word.”
Casey looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
 
 
Trooper Tim Eldredge was at the desk when Victoria and Casey walked in. He looked tired and his uniform was wrinkled. “Morning, Mrs. Trumbull, Chief O’Neill.”
Casey nodded and stepped aside.
Victoria said, “You look as though you’ve had another busy night, Tim.”
“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Trumbull. Bob Scott’s death, you know.”
“I read about it in the off-Island papers early this morning. It seems very strange.”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess you and the chief want to see Sergeant Smalley?”
“Victoria wants to see him, not me,” said Casey.
“I’ll buzz his office. The forensic scientist, Dr. McAlistair, is with him now.”
“Thank you,” said Victoria.
“Go right on up, Mrs. Trumbull. He’ll meet you at the head of the stairs.”
Casey studied the posters and notices on the station house wall. “I’ll wait, Victoria. I’ve got paperwork I have to fill out.”
Victoria held the banister tightly as she went up the stairs. Smalley greeted her, ushered her into his second-floor office, and held a visitor’s chair for her.
“Hello, again, Mrs. Trumbull.” Alison turned to Smalley. “Thanks for letting me take the state police vehicle. I’ll be at the funeral home if anyone needs me.”
After Alison left, Smalley took his seat behind the desk. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“I’m on a sensitive errand, and I’d like to tell you about it indirectly, if you don’t mind.”
“Concerning what, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“Suppose a child witnesses what might have been a killer rifling through a desk, and that child manages to get away and hide someplace safe.”
Smalley leaned forward. “The boy? Teddy Vanderhoop?”
“I can’t identify anyone because I’ve given my word.”
Smalley leaned back again. “If I understand you, Teddy is safe and you know where he is?”
“Possibly.” Victoria nodded.
“Thank God.” Smalley breathed out. “Continue your story.”
“The hypothetical child’s mother is involved with a man who frightens the child. The child doesn’t want his mother to know where he is because he’s afraid the man will come after him.”

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