Shooting Star, page 8
“I have the downstairs bedroom. She should stay away from her own house until we find Teddy and solve Peg’s murder.”
“State police are the ones who solve murders.”
The radio crackled and Junior Norton’s voice came on. “Chief, you know the brick that was thrown through the Rapid Express office?”
“What about it?” asked Casey.
“A note was wrapped around the brick. On VETA letterhead.”
“VETA?” asked Casey.
“Vineyarders for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Says, ‘Even cannibals don’t stew innocent fish. Only REAL people do.’”
“What in hell is that supposed to mean?”
“REAL is Rapid Express Agency Limited, and fish refers to a shipment of five hundred goldfish that one of their employees left out on the tarmac in the sun over the weekend.”
CHAPTER 11
The wet road steamed in the low evening sun. A passing car sprayed the windshield, and Casey switched on the wipers.
“I’m sorry about the goldfish that died,” said Casey. “Seems like an awful waste. But is the brick thrower threatening revenge on Rapid Express employees because of some goldfish?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Victoria.
“Trouble is, I have to take this kind of stuff seriously. You never can tell with these wackos.”
“What can you do?”
“I’ll ask Junior to check on the Island membership of VETA and talk to whoever’s in charge,” said Casey.
Victoria thought for a moment. “You know Bruce Duncan, don’t you?”
“Sure. He’s in your play. Short, balding guy in his mid-thirties.”
“He may know who was getting the shipment of goldfish. He’s quite outspoken about animal rights. I suppose that includes goldfish.”
“I guess.”
“He works for Precious Pets, the pet store.”
“Yeah?”
“Who was to receive the shipment of fish?”
“I’ll ask Junior to check that out,” said Casey, picking up the radio mike.
They drove down the hill where Howland had stopped for the girls the night before and continued toward the ferry dock. Vehicles were lined up in the staging area for the next boat, which was rounding the jetty.
A small intense woman with short, dark, curly hair paced back and forth outside the terminal. Victoria checked her watch. “That’s Mrs. Vanderhoop. She’s waited almost an hour.”
“At least it’s not raining,” said Casey.
Teddy’s mother paced to the railing that overlooked the dinghy dock, turned, and paced back toward the staging area. The arriving ferry was backing into its slip, doors open, cars ready to disembark. A steamship authority crew member, still in yellow foul-weather gear, extended an arm to stop her. She nodded, swiveled around, and paced back toward the railing.
Casey pulled into a nearby parking spot. “She’s really wound up tight.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“How well do you know her, Victoria?”
“Not well. She brings Teddy to rehearsals, then watches from the back of the auditorium until he’s finished. During rehearsals, he usually sits with me, then he and his mother go home together.”
“A typical stage mother?”
“I suppose so,” Victoria mused. “I think I might be, too, if my eight-year-old were performing in a play.”
“He’s not simply in a play, he’s an eight-year-old who’s hit the big time in television, and his whole life is about to change. I wouldn’t want that for Patrick.” Casey shook her head. “Not a normal life for a kid.”
“He’s a wonderful actor,” said Victoria.
“Acting in plays at the playhouse, that’s different.” Casey opened the door and held it open. “I mean, that’s fun, not work.” She slid out and slammed the door shut. “Wait here, Victoria. I’ll get her luggage.”
Victoria could imagine what must be going through Mrs. Vanderhoop’s mind. Casey helped retrieve her suitcases from the baggage cart, wheeled them to the Bronco, and stowed them in back. Teddy’s mother climbed into the seat behind Victoria.
Victoria greeted her soberly.
Casey leaned over the seat. “Mrs. Trumbull says you can stay with her while we look for your son, Mrs. Vanderhoop.”
“Thank you. I would feel better.” She sat back, then immediately sat forward again. “Is there any word of Teddy? I’ve been out of touch since early this morning.”
“Not yet,” said Casey. “All six Island police departments and the state police are searching for him.”
“Have they found any clues?”
“Tracks of bicycle tires in Ms. Storm’s driveway.”
“Teddy’s?”
“We assume so, Mrs. Vanderhoop.”
“Please, call me Amanda.”
“The tracks made a sharp U-turn, and an opened-up comic book was face down on the ground as if it had fallen out of a carrier or basket,” said Casey.
Amanda smiled faintly. “He must have gone home for his bike and his comic books.”
“The state police think Teddy realized something was wrong in Peg’s house and left in a hurry.” Casey backed out of the parking spot. “Quite probably, he’s hiding somewhere. Any thoughts on who he might run to?”
“None at all. Unless his father took him.”
Casey said nothing.
Amanda asked, “Is anyone posted at my house? I mean, in case Teddy comes home?”
“A state trooper is stationed around the clock at Peg Storm’s.”
“Yes, of course.” Amanda waited until Casey turned around and was headed back toward Five Corners. “Would you mind stopping at my place so I can pick up my car and a few clothes?”
“Your car,” said Casey. “I’m not sure about going into your house. Straight ahead?”
“Straight, yes.”
They crossed through the congested traffic of Five Corners onto Lagoon Pond Road. After they passed Maciel Marine they turned left onto the Job’s Neck Road and pulled up in front of Amanda’s. Next door, yellow police tape circled Peg’s house.
Victoria unsnapped her seatbelt and turned again to look at Amanda, who was holding her face in her hands.
“I got to know Teddy well when we sat together at the theater, Amanda. He’s a bright boy. He wouldn’t allow anyone to harm him.”
“His father didn’t want Teddy acting professionally. We argued about my son’s career. When I—when Teddy, that is—got the contract, his father demanded half of everything Teddy earned. Half, of his own son’s earnings.”
“The state police interviewed your ex on his boat,” said Casey.
“His boat. That’s all he cares about. Trying to make Teddy into a fisherman like him.” Amanda blotted her eyes with a wadded-up tissue.
Sergeant Smalley came down the front steps of the house next door, Peg’s house, and strode over to the Bronco. He introduced himself to Amanda.
“Okay if Mrs. Vanderhoop gets her clothes?” Casey asked. “She’s staying with Victoria.”
“Afraid not.” He turned to Amanda. “We obtained a search warrent to look through your house for traces of your son, Mrs. Vanderhoop. We need to go over it again. In the meantime, it’s considered a crime scene. Sorry about that, but I’m sure you understand.”
“I don’t suppose the door was locked?” asked Casey.
“We left it the way it was. Back door unlocked.”
“Yeah,” said Casey. “Mind if we look around?”
“Keep them on the other side of the tape.”
They skirted the property, past the tall beech tree that shaded the house. At the top of the steps that lead up to the kitchen, a wooden toy box had fallen on its side, lid open, with Legos spilling out.
“I’ve told Teddy over and over and over to move that box before someone trips over it,” Amanda scolded. “He …” She stopped.
“Sorry you can’t go inside,” said Casey.
“How long before I can get my clothes?”
“I’ll check with Sergeant Smalley. Probably a day or so. After the state police finish.”
Victoria moved cautiously along the edge of the crime scene tape. She stopped opposite the window and looked at the beech tree. “I loved climbing trees when I was Teddy’s age. I imagine he does too?”
Amanda stared at the tree.
Victoria pointed to a broken branch. “Is that recent?”
“It wasn’t broken when I left.” Amanda crumpled the tissue she was holding.
“Has anyone found Teddy’s bicycle?” asked Victoria.
“No, but …” said Casey.
Victoria continued. “If an intruder kidnapped Teddy, he probably would not have stopped to collect Teddy’s bicycle.”
“Victoria …” warned Casey
“If his bicycle is missing, Teddy must have taken it.”
“I’ve forbidden him to ride on paved roads,” said Amanda.
“Perhaps he felt this was an emergency,” said Victoria, and added reassuringly, “I’m sure he’s safe. And we’ll find him.”
Leonard Vincent had invested the money he’d gotten from his share of Peg’s house in three acres of land in Chilmark and was building a four-bedroom house, a rental property that would support him for the rest of his life. In the meantime, he’d moved in with a woman friend, Penny Weiss. Penny lived in a shack, a small building Vineyarders call a camp, in the woods behind the Animal Rescue League on the outskirts of Edgartown. Her camp was about ten feet by sixteen feet, and consisted of a combination living room and kitchen, and a bedroom, which was essentially a double bed enclosed by plywood walls. A beaded curtain hid a toilet off to one side.
Leonard didn’t share the double bed with Penny. He slept on the couch in the eight-by-ten-foot living room, and spent his time watching TV when he wasn’t working on his house-to-be.
Penny, an artist, put up with Leonard because she liked to have a man around the house to open jars and scare off intruders, and because he was nice looking and could be a lot of fun. She painted watercolors of fishing boats and seagulls, which she sold at the Chilmark flea market. She supported herself, though, by cleaning houses.
She’d waited at a client’s house until the storm was over before returning to her camp.
Leonard, dressed in his usual baggy, black long-sleeved shirt and black jeans, was watching a soap opera.
“Lennie, honey, I’ve got some bad news for you.”
“Yeah?” Leonard moved his head because she was blocking his view of the program.
“I heard it on Island Radio in the car. Your ex was found dead last night.”
“Yeah?” He glanced up at her.
“She fell down the cellar stairs.” Penny set the grocery bags on the floor. “The police are looking for you. They want to question you.”
“Tough. I got nothing to do with her.”
“I guess they question everybody in a case like that.”
“If she fell down the stairs and killed herself, what do they think I can tell them?” Leonard said. “I’m not hiding.”
“Want me to drive you to the police station?”
“Hell, no.” Leonard stretched out his arms, displaying fine pectoral muscles. “They want me, they can find me.”
CHAPTER 12
Ruth Byron’s son, George, had come over on the four-thirty boat, the same one Teddy’s mother was on. Both sat in the ferry lunchroom, Amanda in one of the booths, George on a fixed stool at the windows that faced forward. They didn’t know each other, so when the boat docked in Vineyard Haven, George hitchhiked to his mother’s in West Tisbury, while Teddy’s mother made her phone call to Casey to pick her up at the ferry terminal.
George, a lusty young man in his early twenties, burst in through the back door of his mother’s small cottage, found her washing dishes at the sink, snatched her off her feet and up into his arms, and kissed her soundly on both cheeks.
“Well!” said Ruth, once he set her down. “It’s good to see you, too.” She picked up the dish towel she’d dropped and wiped her wet hands on it. “George, dear, why aren’t you in class?”
“I’ve come to rescue you from Uncle Dearborn.”
“What makes you think I need rescuing?”
“You called.”
Ruth grimaced. “That was just to be motherly. And to tell you about Victoria Trumbull’s play.”
“After your call, Cousin Roderick phoned. Upset because Howland Atherton got the part of the monster. All Roderick got was the understudy role.”
“Ah. Roderick.”
George was a giant male version of his mother. A wide mouth that turned up in a perpetual grin. Deep creases where his mother had dimples. A turned-up nose flanked by wide-spaced hazel eyes and an overall merry expression. Clearly, they were mother and son. George perched on a barstool he’d pulled out from under the counter.
“How long do you plan on staying, George?”
“Until I straighten out Uncle Dearborn.”
Ruth gave him a wry look. “That might take a while.”
“You need my support against that pompous ass and your green-eyed sister.”
Ruth tossed the towel onto the counter. “Dear George, love, I don’t want you involved.”
“I already am.” He got up from his seat, snatched up the dish towel, and began to wipe a plate.
“You’ll have to sleep on the couch. I’m having your room papered.”
“I’ll only be there at night.”
“I had all your bedroom furniture moved to the barn.”
“I’ll sleep in the barn, then. Is that all right?” George finished wiping the plate and put it away.
“The costume barn is awfully dusty.”
“I don’t mind. We kids used to jump up and down on the prop furniture to see the dust rise.”
Ruth smiled. “No wonder the cast griped about the springs.”
“And we used to try on the costumes—sequined gowns, moth-eaten white flannel trousers, armor, flapper hats …”
“Cloches,” Ruth mused. “From a Noel Coward production.”
“We’d stage wars with the weapons—daggers and swords, guns and cudgels. It’s a wonder we didn’t kill each other.”
“I’ll get you clean sheets and a fresh pillow.”
“I know where they are.”
“You heard what happened yesterday, didn’t you, George?”
“Not really. I’ve been on the road for two days.”
“Two days? From New Haven? Surely you didn’t walk?”
George grinned and snapped the dish towel playfully at his mother. “You were about to tell me something.”
“Peg Storm is dead …”
George set down the half-dried knives and forks. “No!”
“Teddy has vanished and tonight is opening night.”
“What happened?”
“The police found her at the foot of her cellar stairs.”
“Why the police … ?”
“Teddy’s mother called the police when there was no answer at Peg’s house.” Ruth emptied the dishpan into the sink.
George watched the soapy water spiral down the drain. “So he’s had to cancel opening night. Serves him right.”
“But he hasn’t canceled, George.” Ruth glanced at her son.
George sat again. “You’re kidding!”
“‘The show must go on.’”
“And the actors?” He thrust his hands into his pockets.
“About half of them refused to go on stage tonight.”
“What about the other half, Mom? Surely …”
“They agree with Dearborn—‘the show must go on.’” Ruth opened the cupboard under the sink and stowed the dishpan.
“With a dead actor and a missing kid?”
“Box office,” said Ruth. “Equity points.”
“No one will show up. That’s totally off the wall.”
Ruth shrugged. “This is summer. Off Islanders probably haven’t heard about the death yet. Or if they have heard, they’ll want to attend all the more. One thing I can assure you, George, dear, theater audiences are unpredictable.”
“But who’ll play the missing actors?”
“Various people. They’ll have to read from the play script. I imagine your Uncle Dearborn has been on the phone most of the day. He tried to enlist Victoria’s granddaughter, Elizabeth.”
“For what?”
“The bride of Frankenstein.”
George burst out laughing. “Nuts and bolts?” He bent over hooting with laughter. “Spare parts?” he sputtered. “Screws?”
“Stop it, George. This adaptation of the book is not like the movies and television.”
George wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “Is Uncle Dearborn going to read the part of the bride of Frankenstein, then?” He laughed some more. “In drag?”
“I have no idea who’ll read. They’re doubling up on parts. Bob Scott, who’s playing the explorer, will probably read the part of Frankenstein’s friend who tries to prevent him from creating the monster.”
George laughed louder. “Bob Scott—the one who’s having it off with Aunt Becca?”
“Don’t be crude, George.” Ruth frowned. “It’s a serious play. Mary Shelley’s book is full of symbolism and social meaning, and Victoria Trumbull’s adaptation has captured that.”
George stifled his mirth. “Sorry, Mumsy. This play is going to lay one large egg tonight. Just what we need to expose Uncle Asshole Dearborn.”
Ruth shook her head. “George, dear, I don’t think you understand how serious the problem is. Uncle Dearborn is a manipulator, and angels love to be manipulated. If he can convince them to back an Equity theater over my objections, that will be the end of the community theater I founded.”
George held out his arms to his mother and embraced her. “You happen to have a comp ticket I can use tonight?”
“Surely, you’re not thinking of going to the opening?”
“I might.”
“But your Uncle Dearborn …”
“I can handle Uncle Dearborn.”
“You think so? Aunt Rebecca as well?” Ruth pried herself out of her son’s arms and fished through her purse. “Here’s the ticket, George dear. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
