Shooting Star Read online

  Eldredge reached the open window on the driver’s side, bent down to speak to Howland, got as far as “Evening, sir. May I see …” when he, too, backed off. He straightened up, stumbled, and almost fell.

  “Holy shit!” he mumbled. “What are you?”

  Ordinarily, Howland would have gotten out of the car, but he thought about the boots he was wearing. The four-inch lifts made him close to six-foot-six, so he remained in the car.

  “Atherton, Tim. It’s Howland Atherton. I’m coming from dress rehearsal at the playhouse.”

  The officer moved toward the car, his hand on the butt of his gun. “Could I see your license, sir. And registration.”

  Howland handed them to the cop, who looked from Howland’s picture on the license to Howland, the actor. “Dracula?” he said finally.

  Howland sighed again. “Frankenstein’s monster.”

  “A hysterical girl called nine-one-one.”

  “I figured,” said Howland.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Atherton, sir, but why in hell did you stop for them? I mean, knowing that you look like that.”

  “I forgot,” said Howland.

  “It’s pretty realistic, you know, all that blood and the stitches on your face. No wonder you scared the shit out of them.” The cop examined Howland critically. “Bolts coming out of your head. Fangs. Look at those claws, will you. Did you shave off your hair?”

  “Bathing cap.” Howland tugged it off to show his matted, silver curls.

  “I don’t think I can cite you for anything. I know where you live if I need you.” Eldredge saluted. “My advice, Mr. Atherton, is don’t stop for any more hitchhikers tonight.”

  Howland headed for home again. He’d had nothing to eat since lunch, and his dogs hadn’t been fed since early morning. He thought of the cold London broil in his refrigerator. A baked potato. A salad. His mouth watered. His stomach growled.

  He had gotten as far as the big, split oak tree at the end of North Road when he heard the police siren again.

  Again, he pulled over onto the grassy verge. This time he got out of the car.

  Eldredge, who was five-foot-seven, shone the flashlight up into the distorted face, at the stitches, the blood, then down the torn clothing to the clumsy, hairy boots. “The full effect is something else, I gotta tell you.”

  Howland clawed at the rubbery, blood-soaked makeup, which started to come off his face in dirty, flesh-colored globs.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Atherton, sir, you better leave the makeup on for now.” The trooper paused. “I’m afraid, sir, I’ll have to ask you to come with me to the police station.”

  “You arresting me?” muttered Howland. “You got probable cause?”

  “All that blood, sir.”

  “Blood? This isn’t blood.” Howland stopped pulling at the gory makeup. “What’s the trouble, Tim? Can’t you locate the girls?”

  “No, sir, we can’t. But it’s something else.”

  “Not at liberty to tell me, I suppose?”

  The trooper coughed softly. “You’re in law enforcement, Mr. Atherton. You understand.”

  Howland leaned a hairy paw on the roof of his car. “I need to get home to feed my dogs.”

  “I’ll call the animal control officer. Joanie will take care of them.” Eldredge paused. “This is embarrassing, sir, but according to the rules, I’m supposed to put the cuffs on you.”

  “What!” said Howland, standing up straight.

  “I gotta go by the book, Mr. Atherton. Hands behind your back, please.”

  “Wait a goddamn minute,” said Howland. “You can’t do that.”

  “Sir, you don’t want to be charged with resisting arrest.”

  “This is outrageous,” Howland blurted out. “You know me.”

  “Yes, sir. DEA. But I’ve got orders.”

  Howland muttered something about rights and lawyers and Miranda, all the protests he, himself, had heard from others many times before. Then he turned sullenly, hands behind his back. He looked over his shoulder. “What the hell is going on?”

  Eldredge snapped handcuffs on, then led Howland to the open door of the police car. “Sorry about this, Mr. Atherton, sir.”

  Howland sidled into the back seat and settled himself at an angle so he wouldn’t have to lean against his shackled hands. “Not the girls, right?”

  “You know I can’t tell you, sir.”

  “Did something happen at the playhouse?”

  The trooper eyed Howland in the mirror and reached for the radio mike. “I’ll call Joanie about your dogs.”

  “Thanks,” Howland muttered.

  After the trooper made arrangements with the animal control officer, he rekeyed the radio mike. “I picked up the suspect at the down-Island end of North Road.”

  Howland leaned forward. “Suspect?”

  “Sierra fourteen to eight-six-zero,” said the voice on the radio. “Ten-fifteen. One male.”

  “Jail!” said Howland.

  “Ten-four.” Eldredge hung up the mike and turned onto State Road heading into West Tisbury. He reached for the button that activated the siren.

  Not a car had gone by in either direction.

  “For God’s sake,” Howland growled. “Goddamned cops and robbers. Got to fight your way through traffic, Eldredge?”

  Tim Eldredge looked again in the rearview mirror and withdrew his hand from the button. The headlights, on high beam, reflected off the occasional road sign and the reflective tape on telephone poles. The arboretum and the agricultural hall were dark. Howland could smell new-mown hay in Whiting’s pasture as they drove past.

  The radio crackled and Eldredge lifted the mike.

  “What’s your location, Tim?”

  “I’m on Deadman’s Curve. Passing the cemetery.”

  “You going by Mrs. Trumbull’s?”

  “That’s a ten-four.”

  “Pick her up, too, will you?”

  “What!” Howland sputtered. “Victoria Trumbull is ninety-two, for God’s sake. What in hell do you think she’s perpetrated?”

  Eldredge released the mike key and grinned at Howland in the mirror. “Mrs. Trumbull? I wouldn’t put anything past her.” He pressed the key again and spoke into the mike. “Does she know I’m stopping by?”

  “She’s aware that we need her help.”

  “Ten-four,” said Eldredge, and hung up the mike.

  “Putting cuffs on her, too, I suppose,” said Howland, shifting to find a less uncomfortable position.

  Tim grinned again. “I only have the one pair with me.”

  “Very funny,” said Howland.

  “We’re not arresting her,” said Tim. “She’s coming in as a courtesy.” The trooper turned left at Brandy Brow, paused at the stop sign, and looked both ways. No cars.

  “You know, of course, Eldredge, normal police procedure,” said Howland, emphasizing the words, “would not allow for arrestees and any other person to be transported together.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Eldredge. “Mrs. Trumbull is a deputy police officer. We’ll put her in front.”

  They passed the old mill and millpond. The still surface reflected stars. At the far end of the pond, Howland could see the pair of resident swans, ghostlike in the starlit night.

  They passed the tiny, shingled West Tisbury police station, the only light showing in this part of the village.

  Eldredge slowed at New Lane and turned into Victoria Trumbull’s driveway. In the starlight, Howland could make out the shadowy roofs that cascaded from the tall main house to the two-story kitchen wing to the one-story summer cookroom and, finally, to the attached woodshed.

  Before he’d known Victoria, Howland used to pass the rambling old house set back from the road and partly hidden by an anemic-looking horse chestnut tree and a spooky dark cedar laced with trumpet vine. He would imagine the ghosts that must inhabit the centuries-old Trumbull house, with its weathered shingles and mottled dark trim. On windy days he could see loose shutters swi
nging back and forth, banging against the house. Probably squealing on their hinges.

  Once Howland got to know Victoria, she had disabused him of his ghosts. We don’t harbor any ghosts in this house, she’d snapped. Look for your ghosts someplace else.

  Eldredge pulled up in front of the kitchen door. The lights were on. Victoria, shrunk somewhat from her once stately five-foot-ten, was still imposing. She came to the door, McCavity, her marmalade cat, twisting himself around her feet. She stooped down and scratched his head, then started down the stone steps.

  Eldredge stood at the bottom. “Evening, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  Victoria held the railing firmly with one hand, her cloth bag and lilac-wood walking stick with the other.

  In the light from the kitchen, Howland could see on her wrinkled face the shadow of her large nose. Victoria paused. “I’d better turn off the lights.”

  “I’ll get them, Mrs. Trumbull, ma’am,” said Eldredge.

  “Thank you,” said Victoria. “And what is your name?” she asked when the trooper returned.

  “Tim Eldredge, ma’am.”

  “You’re George’s boy, aren’t you?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m his nephew.”

  “You look just like your grandfather,” Victoria said as she moved toward the police car.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Eldredge held the passenger door open for her.

  Victoria peered into the back seat. “Still in costume, Howland?”

  “And shackles.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Probable cause.” Howland smiled, exposing fangs. “I’m covered with blood.”

  Eldredge went around to the driver’s side, got in, and started out toward the main road.

  “Did they tell you why they’re picking us up?” Howland asked.

  “All they said was that a problem of some kind had cropped up, and they’ve asked the play’s cast and crew to meet with them at the jail.” Victoria smoothed the skirt of the suit she had been wearing at the playhouse earlier that evening.

  “Where’s your granddaughter?” Howland asked.

  “Elizabeth is asleep. No point in waking her up. Have you had anything to eat?”

  “I planned to eat supper with my dogs when I got home.”

  The trooper stopped at the end of Victoria’s drive and said over his shoulder, “Joanie will take care of Mr. Atherton’s dogs tonight and tomorrow morning, if necessary, Mrs. Trumbull. She said she’ll walk them.”

  “We won’t be kept that long, will we?” Victoria asked.

  “Hard to know,” said Eldredge. “Food’s pretty good at the jail past couple of months. You know the French chef you picked up on drug charges last month, Mr. Atherton? Red Callaghan?”

  “French chef?” asked Victoria. “Callaghan?”

  “He cooks French,” said Eldredge. “Used to work at Le Grenier in Vineyard Haven.”

  “He’s in for eighteen months,” Howland added.

  “Right.” Eldredge patted his stomach.

  CHAPTER 3

  The county jail, in Edgartown, was a nineteenth-century white clapboard house on Main Street at the end of the Edgartown-West Tisbury Road. Most visitors to the Island never realized the building was a jail. A month earlier, the picket fence out front had been covered with pink roses. A few blossoms still hung on.

  Two couples were walking up the center of the dark and deserted Main Street, singing. Tomorrow, the street would be jammed with cars, and the brick sidewalks crowded with summer people wearing whale-print slacks, flower-print dresses, and bright sunburns.

  Eldredge pulled into the parking area behind the building and helped Victoria out. Howland slid awkwardly along the seat toward the door.

  From the back, the building looked more like a jail and less like a whaling captain’s house. High, barred windows in the blocky extension overlooked the chain link fence that surrounded the parking area. Inside the fence, a security light shone on a vegetable garden backed by raspberry canes.

  The trooper took Victoria to the front office and then escorted Howland up the creaky, wooden stairs to a small room with a battered table and chair.

  “Sergeant Smalley wants to see you, Mr. Atherton. He should be along pretty soon.” With that, the trooper waited until Howland was seated in the chair, and shut the door behind him.

  John Smalley, the state police sergeant, didn’t show up for another hour.

  In the meantime, Howland was miserably uncomfortable. He wiggled his fingers behind his back to keep his hands from going numb. He was tired and hungry. His drying makeup itched, and he had no way of scratching. Every time he started to nod off, the handcuffs cut his circulation, and he’d jerk awake with his hands throbbing painfully. No one had come in to question him. No one had come by with food or water or an explanation. He’d spent the long hour cursing all law enforcement officers, including his own perfectly decent boss in Washington. The bare room had nothing to relieve the monotony of waiting. No posters, no notices, not even graffiti.

  That was the last time that goddamned artistic director would ever talk him into performing in a play. Frankenstein’s monster, indeed. The part should have gone to Dearborn Hill’s nephew, after all. Roderick wouldn’t have needed makeup. Hill was a goddamned pompous, officious bastard. Full of himself. Howland brightened slightly when he thought that perhaps, just perhaps, Dearborn Hill’s dead and mutilated body had been found at the playhouse. Murder was the only excuse Howland could imagine for his handcuffs. There’d be plenty of suspects.

  If Dearborn Hill was dead, Howland smiled to himself, he would not have to go on stage tomorrow night.

  Finally, someone unlocked the door and Sergeant Smalley entered. The state police officer glanced at Howland with interest. Now that his makeup had dried and wrinkled, Howland supposed he looked even creepier than when Eldredge had first picked him up. The globs he had begun to pull off earlier dangled from his face on rubbery strands.

  Howland had met John Smalley before. He was a tall, dignified man with close-cropped gray hair. Now, in the middle of the night, he wore neatly pressed tan slacks and a blue blazer over an open-necked white shirt. He was freshly shaved. Howland caught the clean scent of witch hazel.

  Howland felt disagreeably filthy.

  “Morning, Mr. Atherton. I’m sorry about the handcuffs. I’ll get them off immediately.” The sergeant unhooked a ring of keys from his belt. “There was absolutely no need for that. Trooper Eldredge was being overly conscientious. There you go.” He tossed the cuffs onto the table. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to stop for hitchhikers?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Howland stood and stretched his arms over his head and opened and closed his fingers. “Why the state cops? Someone murdered?”

  “Not yet, as far as I know.” Smalley rapped his knuckles on the table. “Teddy Vanderhoop, the boy playing the part of young William Frankenstein, is missing, and the Tisbury police asked the state police to help.”

  “Peg Storm took him home with her.”

  “He’s not there. Neither is Peg Storm. She plays the housekeeper, right?”

  Howland nodded.

  Smalley paced to the end of the table and turned back to Howland. “Doesn’t the housekeeper appear in the second act? Why take Teddy home so early?”

  “Justine is hanged at the end of Act One, so Peg’s part is finished. Usually she stays for notes at the end, but Teddy is staying with her while his mother is in California.”

  “What’s she doing in California?”

  “Negotiating with a studio and looking for a place to live. Teddy’s been offered a starring role in a new TV series.”

  “What about the kid’s father?” Smalley pulled out a chair and sat down, looking up at Howland, who was still standing.

  “They’re getting a divorce.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s from LA originally. He’s from the Island.”

  “Tough on the kid,” said Smalley.

  How
land straightened his fingers and curled them again, then sat at the table across from Smalley. “Why was Eldredge so eager to put me in handcuffs?”

  “He goes by the book. Two people missing, one a young boy. Foul play is a possibility.” Smalley studied the drying makeup. “That getup of yours is a good way to camouflage foul play.”

  Howland held his hairy, clawed, blood-soaked hands out in front of him. “Why the jail?”

  “It’s available, has room, and is secure. Plus, we have a fine French chef, thanks to you.”

  “How’s he working out?”

  “For the first time in history, cops and courthouse employees are volunteering to supervise mealtimes at the jail.” He shifted to face Howland. “You know the cast pretty well by now. What about Peg Storm. Is it Mrs. Storm?”

  “She’s divorced. Uses her maiden name, and goes by ‘Ms.’”

  “Likely to be any problem there?”

  “Good god, no. Not Peg. Teddy’s mother is supposed to be gone a week or so.” Howland’s face itched. “What time is it?”

  Smalley pushed back the sleeve of his blazer and looked at his watch. “Almost quarter to four.”

  “Mind if I clean up?”

  “Not yet. The higher-ups in the state have sent a forensic scientist over from Falmouth to check the stuff on your face.”

  Howland grunted. “The stuff on my face is stage blood. The monster gets shot in the last act.”

  Smalley grinned again, exposing large, crooked teeth. “That’s not the way the book ends. Frankenstein dies, not the monster. The monster goes capering off across the ice floes.”

  Howland frowned and flakes of makeup dropped off. “How come you know so much about the book? Most people have only seen movie versions.”

  “In college I did a senior paper on Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus. By Mary Shelley.”