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Authors: Cynthia Riggs
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Victoria asked.
“I returned to the house with the dogs, shut them in their room, and called the communications center. It was a little before seven. Miss Sampson doesn’t usually come down for breakfast that early. I then returned here and stayed with the body.”
“And Mr. Sampson?”
“Reverend True,” said Darcy. “Reverend True had been quartered in the guesthouse with the pilot.”
“Wake them up, all of them,” Casey ordered. “Tell them to wait in the house until I get there.”
“The conservatory, ma’am?”
“Fine. The state police are on the way.”
Darcy started back up the slope to the house, wet trousers slapping against his legs, shoes squelching.
Victoria watched him stride up the lawn. Ahead of him she could see the flashing blue lights of police vehicles and the line of tiny blinking blue lights with which Doc Jeffers had crowned his motorcycle helmet.
“Darcy seems familiar,” said Casey, “but I can’t place him. Do you know anything about the pilot, Victoria?”
“No,” said Victoria. “Nothing at all.”
CHAPTER 10
While the state police marked off an area around Delilah Sampson’s pond and strung yellow tape around the scene of an unattended death, Oliver Ashpine was wondering how he could deal with the three assessors. He filled Bertie’s bowl with Alpo and set it out in the fenced yard, and then began to fix his own breakfast. What could he do?
He poured himself a third cup of coffee. Almost eight o’clock. He slapped a rasher of bacon into the cast-iron pan and broke two eggs on top.
Those harpies. Humiliating him like that. With the Alley’s porch loafers watching. What kind of warped constitutions did those women have, meeting in that house of death? You’d think they’d show respect for the dead.
Next door the rooster crowed, and that started Bertie barking. The rooster crowed day and night. The racket had kept him awake most of the night. He could sympathize with Jordan Rivers, who lived across the lane from the Willoughbys. Rivers had complained to the police about the rooster, and, of course, the police did nothing. All Rivers accomplished was to make an enemy out of Willoughby. In no way did Oliver intend to antagonize Willoughby, who had some kind of pull with the assessors.
How was he going to defuse this goddamned situation? He’d lain awake listening to that rooster, trying to decide what to do. Three against one, and together they had decades of so-called service to their goddamned beloved town, and here he was, a newcomer. Not a newcomer to the Island, but a newcomer to this snobby town that called itself “the Athens of Martha’s Vineyard.” Pfaugh!
He added cream and no-cal sweetener to his coffee and
stirred it, then flipped the bacon and eggs. What could he do? He peered out of the kitchen window at the scrub oaks that showed a faint haze of pink. Bertie had finished his dog food and was digging a hole near the fence.
Oliver’s house was at the end of Simon Look Road, one of the new developments off Old County Road. Desolate goddamned place. Only three houses along the road were year-round, his and the Willoughby’s next door and Rivers’s across from the Willoughby’s. Complaints about the rooster weren’t going to get Rivers anywhere. Willoughby had worked for the town for years. So had his sister, Tillie, whose job Oliver now had.
The rest of the houses on Simon Look Road were summer rentals. Come July, party, party, party. He wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. Someday, when he had money, he’d move out of this slum. Money, money, money. Always money.
A car went by on Old County Road. The rooster crowed.
He knew what would happen if he tried to unmask those three assessors. Suppose he reported to the selectmen, or stood up in Town Meeting and said the assessors were removing property cards from Town Hall in defiance of state law? And suppose he said they were altering property cards, punishable by a jail term? He smiled at
“I returned to the house with the dogs, shut them in their room, and called the communications center. It was a little before seven. Miss Sampson doesn’t usually come down for breakfast that early. I then returned here and stayed with the body.”
“And Mr. Sampson?”
“Reverend True,” said Darcy. “Reverend True had been quartered in the guesthouse with the pilot.”
“Wake them up, all of them,” Casey ordered. “Tell them to wait in the house until I get there.”
“The conservatory, ma’am?”
“Fine. The state police are on the way.”
Darcy started back up the slope to the house, wet trousers slapping against his legs, shoes squelching.
Victoria watched him stride up the lawn. Ahead of him she could see the flashing blue lights of police vehicles and the line of tiny blinking blue lights with which Doc Jeffers had crowned his motorcycle helmet.
“Darcy seems familiar,” said Casey, “but I can’t place him. Do you know anything about the pilot, Victoria?”
“No,” said Victoria. “Nothing at all.”
CHAPTER 10
While the state police marked off an area around Delilah Sampson’s pond and strung yellow tape around the scene of an unattended death, Oliver Ashpine was wondering how he could deal with the three assessors. He filled Bertie’s bowl with Alpo and set it out in the fenced yard, and then began to fix his own breakfast. What could he do?
He poured himself a third cup of coffee. Almost eight o’clock. He slapped a rasher of bacon into the cast-iron pan and broke two eggs on top.
Those harpies. Humiliating him like that. With the Alley’s porch loafers watching. What kind of warped constitutions did those women have, meeting in that house of death? You’d think they’d show respect for the dead.
Next door the rooster crowed, and that started Bertie barking. The rooster crowed day and night. The racket had kept him awake most of the night. He could sympathize with Jordan Rivers, who lived across the lane from the Willoughbys. Rivers had complained to the police about the rooster, and, of course, the police did nothing. All Rivers accomplished was to make an enemy out of Willoughby. In no way did Oliver intend to antagonize Willoughby, who had some kind of pull with the assessors.
How was he going to defuse this goddamned situation? He’d lain awake listening to that rooster, trying to decide what to do. Three against one, and together they had decades of so-called service to their goddamned beloved town, and here he was, a newcomer. Not a newcomer to the Island, but a newcomer to this snobby town that called itself “the Athens of Martha’s Vineyard.” Pfaugh!
He added cream and no-cal sweetener to his coffee and
stirred it, then flipped the bacon and eggs. What could he do? He peered out of the kitchen window at the scrub oaks that showed a faint haze of pink. Bertie had finished his dog food and was digging a hole near the fence.
Oliver’s house was at the end of Simon Look Road, one of the new developments off Old County Road. Desolate goddamned place. Only three houses along the road were year-round, his and the Willoughby’s next door and Rivers’s across from the Willoughby’s. Complaints about the rooster weren’t going to get Rivers anywhere. Willoughby had worked for the town for years. So had his sister, Tillie, whose job Oliver now had.
The rest of the houses on Simon Look Road were summer rentals. Come July, party, party, party. He wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. Someday, when he had money, he’d move out of this slum. Money, money, money. Always money.
A car went by on Old County Road. The rooster crowed.
He knew what would happen if he tried to unmask those three assessors. Suppose he reported to the selectmen, or stood up in Town Meeting and said the assessors were removing property cards from Town Hall in defiance of state law? And suppose he said they were altering property cards, punishable by a jail term? He smiled at
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