Trumpet of Death Read online

  Zack turned his head. “Leave me alone, okay?”

  “She did, didn’t she. She’s got plenty of money from her old man. But she doesn’t want her old man to know about the stuff she sticks up her nose. So she likes to play, ‘poor lil’ ole me,’ to suckers like you.” His voice rose in imitation of a three-year-old. “‘I don’t have any money. Lend me fifty dollars, and I’ll pay you back.’ Right? That what she said? How much did she get you for?”

  Zack said nothing. He rinsed a fry pan and set it on the drain board.

  Will pushed the stool back and stood. “Well, good luck with getting rid of her. She sticks like Gorilla Glue.” He zipped up his jacket and as he turned to leave, asked, “You met Daddy yet?”

  Zack looked up, puzzled.

  “Her old man. Daddy.” Will pushed the swinging door and held it for a moment. “She’s sure to invoke him. I gotta warn you, beware of Daddy.” With that, Will went through the door, and it swung shut behind him.

  * * *

  Zack finished washing the lunch pots and put them away, then moved last night’s dirty pots into the relatively clean water. All he could think about was his meeting with Sam when he got off work. Everyone had told him Samantha Eberhardt was bad news. He hadn’t listened. She was this beautiful girl who came on to him, like a dream. Dark, shiny hair, so clean it had blue highlights. Really stacked. She was clean-cut looking, kind of innocent. A sort of red-blooded American girl look that was really sexy. And she liked him. He’d thought she did. Well, Will was right. She’d borrowed money and more money. She’d pay him back. Yeah, sure.

  It had taken him a while to realize she was smoking it up or shooting it up. He knew how that went. He should have recognized it sooner.

  He finished scrubbing last night’s pots. He dried them and put them on their hooks, took off his apron, and headed out the swinging door into the empty restaurant.

  A man, as tall as Zack, but heavier, stopped him. “You cleaned those pots from last night?” He was near the swinging doors to the kitchen.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Smith,” said Zack.

  “Phil. About time you called me Phil.” He rested a hand on the left door.

  “Yes, sir,” said Zack.

  “Sorry about that, letting them sit all night. Food dried on them. I apologize.”

  “No problem, Mr. Smith. Phil.”

  Phil Smith pushed the door slightly, but before going through turned to Zack. “Going to the farm job now? You’re a hard worker.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Saving up for something? College?”

  “No, sir. I been hoping to get a better car.”

  “You’ve already got a great Vineyard car. Nothing like duct tape to hold a car together.” He chuckled. “See you tomorrow. And thanks, again.” He pushed the door open and it swung shut behind him.

  Zack got into his car, only halfway listening to his car radio, which was blaring out static along with the local news. He finally switched it off.

  With the static halted, he thought about his walk yesterday with Mrs. Trumbull. She sure knew a lot about plants. Amazing that she found those mushrooms. Trumpets of death. Scary what’s growing out there in the wild. They’re rare, she said. Probably why you didn’t hear about people dying from eating them.

  He knew nothing about the wild stuff that grew here that you’d better not eat or it would kill you. He’d met up with poison ivy in May, the first week he was here. Peed off in the bushes by the side of the road and got the stuff all over his legs and worse. Then there were those floating pink and blue balloon-like jellyfish, Portuguese man o’ wars, that washed up on the beach, and he’d almost picked one up this summer thinking it was a balloon before an Islander shouted at him that they had poisonous tentacles that could send you to the hospital. Sharks. They’d filmed that horror movie, Jaws, here.

  He was almost at Sam’s place, and for the first time he began to have qualms about this parting talk with her. What did Will mean about Daddy? According to Sam, her father was a real softy.

  Well, Zack thought, sitting up straight, in a half hour, the talk will be over, and I’ll be able to get to the farm job by three o’clock.

  CHAPTER 3

  That afternoon, while Zack was on his way to his talk with Samantha, Victoria was typing her weekly column for the Island Enquirer when she heard the squeal of bicycle brakes. A young boy, a neighbor and friend, leaned his bike against the handrail and was climbing the stone steps. She got to her feet and met him as he came in the entry.

  She held out her arms. “Robin! I didn’t realize how late it is. Is school out for the day?”

  “Yup.” He squirmed out from her embrace. “It lets out at two thirty.”

  He was about eleven years old, small and fragile looking, wearing a faded red baseball cap turned backward so the band was across his forehead almost touching his glasses. Above the band a tuft of sandy-red hair stuck out in several directions. He wore jeans with knees frayed to horizontal threads and a gray sweatshirt.

  “I haven’t seen you for several weeks. What brings you to this part of West Tisbury?”

  “Softball practice.”

  “Do you have time for a cup of hot chocolate?”

  “I guess.” He nodded and followed her in.

  Victoria set the teakettle on the stove. “Are you practicing in the field next to the fire station? I thought you usually played at the school.” She opened packets of hot chocolate mix and dumped them into mugs.

  Robin sat in one of the gray painted chairs. “It’s just for this one big game. The fire department’s sponsoring it.”

  “Well, I’m delighted to see you.” When the water boiled, she poured it into mugs and handed one to Robin along with a spoon.

  “Thanks.” He took the mug and held it in both hands.

  She seated herself at the kitchen table across from him. “You must have started sixth grade this year.”

  “Yup.” He took a cautious sip. “We’re having a cookout next week. Friday. Really late. After dark.”

  “That sounds like fun. After practice?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a pep rally for the game Saturday morning. We’re having a bonfire and all.”

  Victoria, too, took a cautious sip. “Who are you playing?”

  “The Charter School.” He made a face.

  She got up, took down the box of graham crackers and put several in front of him and one in front of herself. “Have you played the Charter School before?”

  “Not softball.” He reached for a cracker, broke it in half, and dipped it into his chocolate. He lifted the soggy end of the cracker to his mouth just as it was disintegrating.

  “If you’re playing a week from Saturday and the public is invited, I’d like to watch.”

  He looked up. “You would?”

  “Of course. I’d like to see your team win.”

  He grinned and dipped the other half of the cracker.

  “I need to get more exercise.” Victoria watched and then dipped her own cracker, too. “I’ll walk there along the bicycle path.” As she lifted it to her mouth, the sodden half of the cracker dropped into her lap. “Oh, bother!”

  Robin laughed. “You have to catch it quick.”

  Victoria wiped up the mess in her lap with her paper napkin and set the wadded-up napkin beside her place. “I don’t think the ball field is more than a half-mile from here.”

  “I’ll walk with you, then,” said Robin. “I can leave my bike here.”

  And so it was decided.

  * * *

  Zack turned onto the dirt road that led up to Samantha’s, a gray-shingled shack perched on a grassy hill. The house was what he’d heard Islanders call a “camp,” a tiny place consisting of one room that was living room, bedroom, and kitchen combined, with a mini bathroom added on who knows how many years ago. One wall of the room had been opened up to provide a window with a wide-screen view of Vineyard Sound. Every time Zack opened the door to Sammy’s place, he was
faced with first her godawful mess, and beyond it that million-dollar view spread out below. Every time he went there, he marveled that his girl lived in a place that, despite its size, must rent for a thousand dollars a week during the summer. Probably more than that.

  He eased up on the gas as he passed through the grove of stunted oak trees and reached an open field, the approach to Sam’s place.

  This will be simple, he thought. She’ll probably be relieved to part company. No hard feelings.

  He parked his ratty convertible next to hers, a Mini Cooper her father had given her. A birthday present. From everything Sam said about him, he sounded like a pretty nice guy.

  The view from her hill was partially blocked by trees on the other side of the field. Once inside her house, though, the view was something else, especially on a clear day like today.

  He got out of his car. Kind of slowly.

  This talk with Sammy was going to be okay.

  Three big flat stones with grass encroaching around the edges led to a fourth big stone that formed her front step. Now that he was almost at that front step he suddenly thought he should have brought her a parting gift. Well, he couldn’t turn back now.

  He mounted the big step and rapped on the weathered front door. In South Boston, where he came from, the peeling paint and splintered wood meant poverty. Not here in Chilmark.

  “That you, Zack? Come on in.”

  Her voice was high and lispy like a little girl’s. When he’d first heard her speak, the lisp seemed pretty sexy. But now it grated on his nerves.

  He lifted the old-fashioned latch on the door and pushed it open. “Yeah, Sammy. It’s me.”

  She was lying on the unmade sofa bed that partially blocked the view. Looking past her he could see the sound spread out below, and beyond it a chain of islands. Today, it was so clear he could even see hills on the far distant mainland.

  He looked down at her. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem.” She sat up and muted the TV volume with the remote. As he took a step toward her, she wrinkled her nose and tossed the remote onto the bed. “Didn’t you wash up? You smell like cooking grease.”

  “Yeah, I did. But I had a bunch of pots to clean. Left over from last night. Stuff stuck on them, and—”

  “I don’t want to hear about your job.” Samantha shuddered. “Honest, Zack, you oughta change before you come here.”

  Zack was about to defend himself. After all, he was going from the dishwashing job to the farm job. The smell of manure didn’t conflict with cooking grease. He kept his mouth shut.

  Samantha slid off the bed and stood, tossing that mane of shiny blue-black hair over her shoulder like a wave you could ride. She nodded toward the bathroom. “Go in the loo and wash up.” She’d started calling it “the loo” after watching too many British TV shows. She was pretty tall, but not as tall as he was. Her bathrobe opened when she stood, showing off an extremely small orange bathing suit he hadn’t seen before.

  “Stop staring and clean up, will you?”

  “You look good.”

  “Go!” She fastened the belt around her robe.

  He did the best he could, knowing that the kitchen smell was coming from his clothes, not from him. He dried his hands and face and went to confront her, feeling as though he’d already lost the first round.

  “Sammy, I need to talk to you.”

  “You don’t smell much better.” She’d closed up the bed while he was in the bathroom and was standing in front of the TV switching channels, the sound still muted. She didn’t look up.

  “You want to sit?” he asked.

  She looked up. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Just that we need to talk.” This was not going to be as easy as he’d thought. “Want to go outside? Sit on the grass?”

  “What’s the matter with you? You want to talk, then talk.” She turned back to the TV and fixed it on some channel he couldn’t see from where he stood.

  “I’ve been thinking, Sammy—”

  “Glad to hear that.”

  There was a chair next to the bathroom door. He reached for it, but didn’t sit. “I mean, you know, we’ve had some good times together.” He stopped. This wasn’t the way to begin.

  She looked up from the TV. “Oh?”

  “Don’t you want to sit down?”

  “No.”

  He needed to sit for this discussion. But as long as she was on her feet he should stand. Besides, if he sat and she stood, she’d tower over him and he didn’t need that.

  “Well. Okay. I think maybe it’s time to call it quits. Go our own ways, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know.” She jammed her hands into the pockets of her bathrobe.

  He held on to the back of the chair. “I mean, my jobs … I don’t have any more money I can lend you…”

  She stood there, no response, silhouetted against the view so he couldn’t see her face.

  “No hard feelings, Sammy. I got to, you know, go my own way. You been real good to me…”

  She still said nothing, stood like a statue.

  “Well … I guess this is, like, goodbye, then.” He let go of the chair back. He thought about turning to leave.

  Samantha spoke. Her voice was no longer babyish. “If that’s what you think, you’ve got another think coming.”

  “You don’t … you don’t need to pay back the money I loaned you.” He grabbed the seat back again. “I figured you feel the same, you know. About me. We seen enough of each other.”

  Samantha laughed, not a nice laugh. “Backing out of responsibility, Zack?” She emphasized his name.

  “What do you mean?” She was the one who owed him money. “I said you don’t owe me a thing.”

  “Is that right.” Not a question. “You forget all those afternoons and evenings we spent together.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If you recall, we did more than a little fooling around, Zack.”

  Zack paled. “We were, you know, real careful.”

  She laughed again. “Not careful enough.”

  “We were. Both of us. Real careful.”

  “Oh?” said Sam. “Think again.”

  “You’re not…?”

  “Think not?”

  “Jeezus!” He lifted his hands from the back of the chair and immediately set them back, a helpless gesture.

  “You think you’re dropping me? Just try.”

  Zack didn’t know what to think. He couldn’t speak. Didn’t know what to say even if he could.

  “Drop me and I tell Daddy about those times we spent together.”

  Zack’s mind spun. He couldn’t think the word pregnant. What did it mean, anyway? An abortion? A baby? Marriage? Beware of Daddy, Will had said.

  “Daddy will just love having you for a son-in-law.” Her little-girl voice was turned on again.

  Zack backed away. He bumped into the counter that held the sink. Felt behind himself for the door. Pushed it. Latched. Turned. Pushed down the thumb-hold that unlatched the door, and the door flew open.

  And he fled. Down the big step, across the three flat rocks with the grass growing in on them. To his car, so crummy looking next to her flashy new Mini convertible.

  * * *

  Samantha slammed the door behind him and watched from the many-paned window as Zack stumbled across the field toward his car, wrenched the car door open, backed carefully away from her convertible, and drove off with the scritching sound of sand under spinning tires.

  “The nerve of him.” She turned away from the window. “No goddamned loser is going to ditch me first.” Sam undid the belt of her bathrobe and shucked it off. She grabbed the remote and flicked away the images on the TV screen. “I’ll show him who gets to call it quits first.” She retrieved her jeans from under the sofa bed and tugged them on over her orange thong. “Just you wait, Mr. Zack Zeller. Just you wait.”

  * * *

  While Zack fled from Samantha’s, the regulars at All
ey’s Store were in their usual positions, early today because of time off in respect of the death at the old parsonage. Joe the plumber leaned against the post that held up the roof, Sarah Germain sat on the bench next to the rusty Coca-Cola cooler, and Lincoln Sibert, tall and lanky, leaned against the frame of a door that led into the store.

  “What’s the matter, Linc?” asked Joe. “Something bugging you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That son of yours?”

  Lincoln said nothing.

  “He still seeing that Eberhardt girl?”

  “That’s what’s bugging me,” snapped Lincoln.

  “Cheer up,” said Sarah. “She’s been hanging out with that kid who lives at Mrs. Trumbull’s. She’s probably ready to drop Sebastian.”

  “Zack Zeller,” said Joe. “She hangs out with him and Sebastian and a few others besides.”

  “Cut it out, will you?” Lincoln turned and smacked the door frame with his fist. He brought his fist up to his mouth and sucked it.

  Joe took a package of Red Man out of a pocket. “This too shall pass.” He took his penknife out of another pocket and carved off a chunk of tobacco.

  “Thanks.” Lincoln lowered his hand. “Just what I need. You and your philosophizing.”

  “Not me,” said Joe, stuffing the tobacco into his jaw. “Some dead Persian wrote that.”

  “Where’s Sebastian now?” asked Sarah.

  “He didn’t come home last night.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a big deal to me,” said Joe.

  “Of course he comes home at night. He’s only sixteen.”

  “Not me when I was sixteen,” said Joe.

  “You’d be home in bed asleep by ten, if you were my son,” Lincoln snapped.

  “Don’t worry about him,” said Sarah. “He’s a good kid.”

  Joe said, “Not to change the subject, but that was some fire last night.”

  Lincoln turned away.

  “Have they identified the body yet?” asked Sarah.

  “Cops don’t share nothin’ with us,” replied Joe.

  “They think it’s arson,” said Sarah.

  “I coulda told ’em that.” Joe looked over at Lincoln, who was slumped against the doorframe. “C’mon, Linc, lighten up.”

  “I’ve got to go.” Lincoln straightened and, without another word, left his spot next to the door, stepped off onto the asphalt parking lot, got into his truck, and steamed off. Joe and Sarah watched his truck disappear, heading toward Chilmark.