Shooting Star (4 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

BOOK: Shooting Star
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“
Victor
Frankenstein,” said Victoria.
“ … and Ruth Byron, founder of the theater. Anyone else?”
Still sketching, Dawn said, “The two kids who play Monsieur De Lacey’s son and daughter.”
“The monster’s adopted family,” Victoria explained to Smalley.
“Yes, Mrs. Trumbull. I remember. Thank you.” He turned to Trooper Eldredge. “Have you tried to locate those two, Tim?”
“Their parents didn’t know where they were, sir.”
“Shacked up in a tent on Tisbury Great Pond,” said Dawn.
Smalley turned to Eldredge. “Have someone find them and bring them in, will you?”
“They’re at the head of Town Cove,” said Dawn. “In my tent.”
“Right.” Eldredge got up and headed toward the door.
Smalley continued. “I know most of you. Stagehands, makeup people, stage manager,” he nodded at a woman dressed in black, “lighting, sound, most of the cast, interns.” He nodded at Roderick, who sat on Dearborn Hill’s right. “And you are … ?”
Even sitting down, Roderick, who was in his early twenties, was several inches taller than anyone else at the table. “I am Roderick Hill. The understudy for Frankenstein’s monster.”
“Yes, of course,” said Smalley, shifting his notes on the table. “Yes. Thank you. I do know who you are.”
A state trooper entered the room, boots squeaking on the linoleum. Smalley looked up. The trooper stopped next to him, bent down, and whispered something.
“Get Tim Eldredge back here, right away,” Smalley told the trooper. He turned to the people at the table. “You’ll have to excuse me. All of you, please wait.” He glanced toward the kitchen pass-through, where Chef Callaghan was setting laden-down stainless steel serving dishes. “Breakfast is ready.”
Howland helped Victoria to her feet.
“Wonder what the trooper wanted?” she said. “Do you suppose they’ve found Teddy?”
“Didn’t look like good news,” said Howland. He sniffed the welcome aroma of coffee and bacon. “Let’s get in line. I understand Chief O’Neill is here because her deputy was picked up as a suspect.”
Victoria smiled. Despite a night without sleep, her hooded, dark eyes were bright on either side of her great nose. She reached into the cloth bag hanging on the back of her chair and brought out her blue baseball cap, which she held for Howland to see. He recognized the hat. Gold stitching in a bold curve across the front read “West Tisbury Police, Deputy.”
Victoria spotted Dr. McAlistair as soon as the forensic scientist entered the dining room, a few minutes after Smalley left. The tall woman in a tailored suit, tan slacks, and jacket with a brown and white striped blouse wasn’t dressed like an Islander. The doctor glanced around the bare room, at the pushed-together tables, the grimy off-white walls, and the worn linoleum floor. By now, twenty or so people were lined up at the kitchen window. Victoria beckoned to her to join them in line.
Howland introduced them.
Victoria smiled. “You came over on the morning paper boat?”
“It was more like the middle of the night, Mrs. Trumbull. Much too early.”
“Are you from England?”
“My parents are British, actually. Do I understand you’re not only the playwright, but a police deputy?”
Victoria smoothed her tousled hair and smiled. “I’ve been some help to Chief O’Neill.” She lifted a tray off a stack next to the counter, took a heavy white plate and utensils, and helped herself to bacon and scrambled eggs.
The cook was standing by the window when they reached it. He gave Howland a salute that was just this side of insolent.
Victoria looked questioningly at Howland, who was carrying her tray to the table.
Howland shrugged. “Chef Callaghan would rather not be in jail. As the drug enforcement agent who nabbed him, I’m responsible for his being here.”
“Everyone will be sorry when his sentence is served.”
“Everyone but Callaghan. He’s serving eighteen months.”
“A year-and-a-half is a long time. He’s not from the Island, is he?”
“Rhode Island. Providence.”
For a while, the only sound was the scraping of utensils on plates. Then conversation picked up. Why had the trooper come for Sergeant Smalley? Had they found Teddy? And Peg?
Dearborn’s nephew, Roderick, had gone back to the window for a second helping. Like the stage manager, he was dressed entirely in black—a long-sleeved turtleneck shirt that bagged at the neck, loose trousers, and black running shoes. Victoria noticed that he was limping. He returned and sat hunched over his plate, forking food into his mouth.
“Obnoxious kid,” said Howland. “Runs in the family.”
“Roderick is a poet, Howland.”
Howland smiled.
“He’s really quite good,” Victoria said. “He often reads his work at Island Java.”
“Even poets can be obnoxious.”
“Roderick has given me several of his poems to critique. I was quite touched.”
“Victoria …” Howland didn’t complete his thought.
Dearborn, knife in his right hand, fork in his left, was gesturing at Roderick, who nodded in reponse.
Dawn Haines had pushed her sketchpad to one side and watched Dearborn and his nephew.
This was the first time Victoria had seen the two close together. Roderick and Dearborn had a strong family resemblance. Both were heavy-set with high foreheads and protruding lips. Both had thick wavy hair, Dearborn’s white and nicely styled, Roderick’s light brown, slicked back and worn in a ponytail. Roderick, even seated, was much taller than his uncle and outweighed him by a considerable amount.
After they finished breakfast, Dr. McAlistair wiped the surface
of the table in front of her and spread out some papers she’d taken from her briefcase.
“We needn’t wait for Sergeant Smalley to give you the results of the preliminary tests, Mr. Atherton. Stage blood and makeup, as you said. I’ll send the samples to the lab in Sudbury, of course, but I see no reason to examine them further unless something else develops.”
“I hope we find Teddy soon,” said Victoria.
The sheriff opened the door into the dining room. Conversation around the table hushed as Sergeant Smalley and Trooper Eldredge returned to their seats. Smalley’s expression was unreadable.
“Bad news,” said Howland.
“Teddy … ?” Victoria asked Smalley.
“We haven’t found the boy yet, Mrs. Trumbull. We’re still trying to locate him.” Smalley looked down at the notebook he’d placed on the table. “However, we’ve found Ms. Storm.”
Bruce Duncan, the animal rights activist, stood and ran his hands up and down the front of his black sweatshirt.
Dawn Haines set her fork on her plate.
Smalley looked down at his notes. “We found her body.”
The strand of hair Bruce Duncan had smoothed across the top of his scalp flopped down to one side as he shook his head.
“Sit down, Mr. Duncan, if you will, please,” said Smalley.
Duncan continued to stand. “First William is killed. Then Justine.” He slapped his chest. “Henry Clerval … me … Frankenstein’s friend … I’m next!”
“Splendid, Mr. Duncan!” Dearborn Hill nodded vigorously. “Exactly the kind of emotion I hope you can project on stage.”
“Riiight,” said Dawn.
“Please, Mr. Duncan.” Smalley rapped his knuckles on the table. “We expect to find the boy alive.”
Bruce Duncan sat and smoothed the errant strand of hair back on top of his head.
Smalley went on. “Obviously, I can’t go into details. We obtained a search warrant and went through Ms. Storm’s house. She was found at the foot of the cellar stairs.”
Duncan stood again. “Hanged? Like in the play?”
“At the foot of the cellar stairs,” Smalley repeated.
“For heaven’s sake, sit down, Bruce,” Victoria said.
Casey leaned toward her. “Who’s he?”
“Bruce Duncan. He works at Precious Pets,” said Victoria.
Conversation started up, with a nervous edge.
Smalley rapped on the table again. “At this point, our priority is to find the boy. I need to know every detail you can tell me about Teddy and Ms. Storm.” The cast and crew studied one another. “A crime scene team is at Ms. Storm’s house now. Does anyone know the name of her ex-husband?”
“I believe it’s Leonard,” said an elderly man who’d been quiet until now. “She called him Lennie.”
“Your name again, sir?” said Smalley.
“Gerard Cohen. I play the blind man who befriends the monster.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cohen. Do you know where Leonard lives?”
“He lives on-Island, I understand, but I don’t know where.”
Smalley turned to Eldredge. “See if you can locate Leonard Storm, Tim. I’ll need to talk to him.”
Dawn looked up. “Storm was Peg’s maiden name.”
“What is her former husband’s name?” Smalley asked.
“Vincent,” said Gerard Cohen. “Leonard Vincent.”
“See if you can find him, Tim.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tim, and left the room.
“In the meantime, I’ll go over what’s happened during the past five or six hours.” Smalley glanced around at the gathering. “Teddy’s mother, Mrs. Vanderhoop, called the Tisbury police around midnight to report that she hadn’t been able to reach her son, who was staying with Peg Storm. Shortly after she called, the state police got a nine-one-one call from two girls who were hitchhiking from Vineyard Haven to West Tisbury.”
Roderick Hill, who’d been whispering to his uncle, sat up suddenly. “Two girls?”
Smalley nodded. “They claimed a monster had stopped to pick them up. We located and identified the driver to our satisfaction. We have not yet located the girls who called.”
“Were they using a cellular phone?” Victoria asked.
Smalley nodded. “That’s one problem, Mrs. Trumbull. A cell phone call to nine-one-one originating here on the Island gets routed through Framingham, State Police Headquarters. We know the cell phone number, but can’t pin down the location of the caller.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Reception on the Island is notoriously poor. When we call the number, we get the ‘out of service’ message. We’ll keep trying, of course. Yes, Dawn?”
“Does Peg’s death have anything to do with the girls?”
Smalley shifted papers in front of him. “As yet, we have no reason to believe their call is related to either Peg’s death or to Teddy’s disappearance.”
Tim returned, holding a slip of paper. “I have Vincent’s address, Sergeant. Want me to bring him here to the jail?”
“Yes.” Smalley looked at his watch. “We’ll be here another hour, at least.” After Tim left, Smalley riffled through his notes and continued. “The Tisbury police made a cursory check of Ms. Storm’s house, found neither Teddy nor Ms. Storm, and called the state police. We obtained a search warrant and that’s when we found Ms. Storm’s body.”
Dawn Haines moved her sketchpad in front of her. “She cared about this play and all of us acting in it. She was the only person treating Teddy like a grown-up. Except for Mrs. Trumbull. Everybody else acted like he was, like, a baby.”
Smalley cleared his throat. “We’re trying to locate Teddy’s father.”
Dawn looked up again. “You know where he lives?”
Smalley glanced at his notes. “In Oak Bluffs near the lobster hatchery. Is that right?”
“That’s where his house is.”
“Roughly five miles from his wife and son,” Smalley murmured and wrote something in his notebook.
Victoria said, “It’s only a half-mile by boat.”
“Teddy is an Equity player,” said Dearborn Hill. “His mother usually sits through rehearsal until little William is killed, then they go home together.”
Smalley nodded. “Was it generally known that Mrs. Vanderhoop was going to California?”
“Certainly. Mrs. Vanderhoop told me of Teddy’s good fortune, and I informed everyone in the cast.” Dearborn Hill swept his arm around the table. “She asked me to excuse Ms. Storm from rehearsal early to get Teddy home by bedtime. I told you, didn’t I, that Teddy is Equity?”
“You did,” said Victoria.
“Would you explain, Mr. Hill, what ‘Equity’ is all about?” Smalley asked. “Does it have any bearing on this situation?”
“I’d be delighted,” said Dearborn, adjusting himself in his seat. “Equity is, essentially, a theatrical union. A director, such as I, prefers to work with Equity players because we can depend upon their learning their lines, showing up for rehearsals, and performing on stage.” He sat back. “Amateur players undercut the professionalism of theater.”
Dawn Haines snickered. She had started to sketch again.
“Acting is a serious business, my dear, not to be laughed at.” Dearborn scowled at Dawn. “Vacationers on Martha’s Vineyard these days are people of discrimination …”
Victoria interrupted. “Have you contacted Ruth Byron?”
“Ruth Byron?”
“The playhouse founder.”
Smalley scribbled a note.
“She’s hasn’t been around for some time,” Dearborn said.
“Actually, she’s here most of the time,” said Dawn. “Just not when Mr. Hill is around.”
“Ruth inherited the theater building from her aunt,” Victoria said.
Dearborn leaned back again. “Ruth and her sister, my wife, disagree about their aunt’s legacy.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Ruth and I have our own legitimate disagreement over artistic matters. No bearing on little William Frankenstein.”
“His name is Teddy Vanderhoop,” said Dawn.
“What are you drawing?” muttered Bruce Duncan.
Dawn tilted her head and held up her sketch. “Mrs. Trumbull. Is that okay with you?”
Bruce looked at the drawing, then turned away.
“Pretty good likeness,” said Tim Eldredge, leaning forward.
“Ruth Byron hired Mr. Hill as artistic director on a trial basis,” said Gerard Cohen. “He’s an excellent director.”
Dearborn Hill bowed his head in Cohen’s direction.
“Thank you, Mr. Cohen,” said Smalley. “Does anyone know Teddy’s father’s first name?”
“Jefferson Vanderhoop the Fourth,” said Dawn.
“We’ll need to bring Mr. Vanderhoop here.”
“He’s rented his house for the summer,” said Dawn.
Smalley sighed. “Do you know where he is, Ms. Haines?”
“On his boat. On a mooring in Lagoon Pond.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
Dawn shook her head.
Smalley murmured, “Vineyard Haven harbormaster.”
“His boat is, like, on the Oak Bluffs side.”
Smalley took a breath. “Oak Bluffs harbormaster. Is there anything else you can tell me, Ms. Haines, before I send Trooper Eldredge off again?”
She shrugged.
Smalley returned to his notes. “Did Ms. Storm have any close friends? Male or female?”
Dearborn Hill cleared his throat. “She and I went to dinner once or twice to discuss her role.”
Smalley frowned. “Any other friends?”
“I was as close to her as anyone,” Gerard Cohen said. His heavy horn-rimmed glasses had slipped down his nose. “She lived next door to the Vanderhoops on Job’s Neck, across the road from me. Mrs. Vanderhoop encouraged me to get involved in the theater after my wife died. Right after Peg’s divorce.”
“Any other friends?”
“None that I know of. She kept to herself.”
“Did she have a job?”
“She was a photographer. Weddings, family gatherings, that sort of thing. Not steady employment,” said Cohen.
Tim Eldredge returned and Dawn stopped sketching long enough to look up at him.
Smalley checked his watch. “Did you locate Mr. Vincent?”
“No, sir. The address I had for a Leonard Vincent is a T-shirt shop near the ferry.”
Smalley looked around the table. “Anyone happen to know if Mr. Vincent owns the T-shirt shop? Dawn?”
Shrugs. Blank looks.
“Anyone here
know
Mr. Vincent?”
Gerard Cohen spoke up. “I knew him only slightly. My wife was ill for several years, so I didn’t get around much. The Vincents were divorced the year she died.”
“Any idea what Mr. Vincent does for a living, Mr. Cohen?”
“Afraid not. He made quite a lot of money when he sold his half of Peg’s house back to her.”
“Don’t leave yet, Tim. I need to talk to you.” Smalley stood up. “I won’t keep the rest of you. It’s been a long night. Don’t go off Island without letting us know where we can reach you.” He tugged his wallet out of his back pocket, withdrew business cards, and passed them out. “At least until we locate the boy.” He yawned, starting off a chain reaction of yawns around the table. “Tim, ask the sheriff to let us out. I’ll take Mr. Atherton back to his car.”
“I’ll give Howland a ride in the police car,” said Casey.
Dearborn Hill cleared his throat. “We still have unfinished business, Sergeant.”
“What is that, Mr. Hill?”
“Tonight is opening night for the play.”
“Good heavens, Dearborn!” said Victoria. “You don’t intend to go ahead with the play under these circumstances.”
“Ms. Storm’s death is a tragedy, one we must respect.” Dearborn’s
voice was low and mellow. “The greatest honor we can pay Ms. Storm is to treat her as the professional she hoped to become. The play must go on.”
“The play most certainly must not go on,” Victoria said. “We’ve got to find Teddy.”
“I have an understudy in mind for Teddy,” Dearborn said. “Our stage manager can step into the role of Justine.” He glanced at the woman in black. “You know her part, Nora?”
The stage manager nodded.
Victoria flushed. “That’s outrageous.”
“It’s professional theater, Mrs. Trumbull. We are guaranteed a full house tonight.”
“Because an actor is dead? How callous.” Victoria looked around the table. “Do any of you intend to go on stage tonight?”
“Count me out,” said Dawn.
Howland nodded at Roderick Hill, his understudy. “You’re welcome to the monster’s role.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and unfolded it. “Here are your fangs.” He set the false teeth on the table in front of Roderick. “And your claws.”
“I can’t handle it,” said Bruce Duncan, his elbows on the table, his forehead resting on his clasped hands.
“I was close to Peg,” said Gerard Cohen. “I’d rather not go on tonight. Sorry, Dearborn.”
“I know Henry Clerval’s lines,” said Bob Scott, a slight man with dirt-stained jeans and a shaggy beard. Scott opened and closed the play as the Arctic explorer. “Bruce and I don’t ever appear on stage at the same time.”
Dearborn studied Scott. “I hope you’ll trim your beard, as I asked you to before.”
Scott grinned. “The ladies like it rough the way it is.”
Dearborn turned away without further comment. “Thank you, my friends. Those of you who intend to go on stage tonight, be at the playhouse at three. We’ll run through the play again, double time. That will give you a few hours of rest.” He rose from his seat. “I’ll notify the radio station that the play will go
on, despite the tragic death of a key actress. Then I must round up actors to fill in for those of you unable to perform.”
Dr. McAlistair gathered up papers and put them in her attache case. “Sergeant, I have more work to do here, but I’m exhausted. Can someone book a hotel room for me?”
“I’m not sure we can find a vacancy this time of year on such short notice, but I’ll have someone check.”
“I have a spare bedroom,” Victoria said. “If you don’t mind sharing a bath.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“She’s got a great old house. It’s haunted,” said Howland, not looking at Victoria.
 
Jefferson Vanderhoop the Fourth was bent over the engine of his forty-foot lobster boat, which was moored in Lagoon Pond, when the Oak Bluffs harbormaster’s launch pulled alongside. A short, stocky, dark-skinned man was at the wheel. When he spoke, his cigarette stuck to his lower lip like a growth of some kind. A cap with NYPD in faded gold stitching was pulled down over thick black eyebrows. He left the controls, dropped a fender between the two boats, and looped a line over a cleat on the lobster boat.
A small wooden skiff tethered behind Vanderhoop’s boat bobbed in the wake of the launch.
The launch passenger, a weary-looking guy wearing a day-old beard, a rumpled state trooper’s uniform, and leather boots coated with dust, stood up and made his way unsteadily forward from the stern.
A flock of gulls took off into the wind, circled overhead, then settled back on the water.
Vanderhoop straightened up and wiped oily hands on a rag. He grinned at the harbormaster, who’d stepped on board the fishing boat. “What d’ya say, Domingo?”
“How you doing, Jefferson. You know trooper Tim Eldredge?”
Eldredge started to scramble awkwardly onto the deck of the larger boat.
“Hey!” said Vanderhoop, glancing at Eldredge’s boots. “No hard soles on my boat.”
Tim dropped back onto the launch, undid his boot laces, tugged off his boots, exposing holes in both socks where his big toes stuck out, and made his way slowly to Vanderhoop’s boat.
Vanderhoop scowled at him. “Not been around boats much? You live here long?”
Tim nodded. “Born here.”
“What brings you to my boat?” Vanderhoop asked the harbormaster.
Domingo leaned against the pilothouse, crossed one leg over the other, and pointed his cigarette at Tim. “His show.”
“State police business?” asked Vanderhoop.
“Yes, sir. Need to ask you a few questions.”
“What’s up?” Vanderhoop looked from Tim to Domingo.
Domingo put his hands in the pockets of his khaki trousers and shrugged.
Tim took a plastic card out of his shirt pocket and began reading out loud. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say …”
“
Miranda
?” cried Vanderhoop, standing up straight. “Why in hell are you reading Miranda to me?”
Tim kept reading and finished,” … will be provided for you at government expense.”
“What kind of asshole are you, anyway?” said Vanderhoop.
Tim put the card back in his pocket and pulled out a notebook. “Would you mind telling me where you were last night, Mr. Vanderhoop?”
“What’s this about?” Vanderhoop gave his hands another wipe and tossed his rag onto the engine block. Stripped to the waist and barefoot, he stood about six-foot-three and probably weighed two hundred thirty pounds. The small amount of excess fat he carried formed a slight bulge over the belt of his jeans. His dark hair curled below his ears and he was clean-shaven.
“Sorry, sir. I’m not at liberty to give out information at this point in time.”
“I suppose my soon-to-be ex-wife filed a complaint?”
“No, sir. This is strictly informal. Answers to a few questions. We can do it here on your boat, or, if you’d prefer, we can go back to the police barracks.”
Vanderhoop leaned over the side of his boat and spat into the water. “Where was I last night?” He pointed down at his deck. “Right here.”
“Can anyone verify that, sir?”
“I doubt it.”
“Mind if I look around?”
Vanderhoop set large, callused hands on his hips. “What?”
“I’d like to look around your boat, sir.”
“You got a search warrant or something?”
“I can get one, if necessary,” said Tim.
Domingo grinned and turned away.
Tim continued. “I was hoping you’d cooperate.”
Vanderhoop’s face flushed. “What is this, anyway?”
Tim shook his head.
Domingo dragged on his cigarette. Ash fell off and dropped on the deck.
Vanderhoop glanced at the ash on his clean deck. “Got nothing to hide. Be my guest.” He waved a hand at the pilothouse. “Don’t mess up my stuff.”
The wheel and controls of the boat were sheltered by the overhang of the pilothouse. Eldredge went down three steps into a tidy cabin. On his left was a spotless galley with stove, small sink, and ice chest. On the right, on a folded-down table, a chart was opened to Nantucket Sound. Forward of the galley an L-shaped bench and table on a telescoping leg formed a reading and eating nook. Eldredge studied everything that could hide a small boy. He squeezed through a narrow door. A small bathroom opened to the left. A showerhead on a hose hung above
the toilet. A V-shaped berth tucked into the bow was made up with blankets and pillows, where Vanderhoop—or someone—obviously slept. A battery-operated reading lamp and a dozen poetry books sat on a shelf above the bunk.

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