INDIAN PIPES Page 3

  “I spoke with Tad after he left yesterday morning. He was on the ferry, just about to dock in Woods Hole.”

  “He called on a cell phone, didn’t he?”

  Hiram groaned and tilted his chair backward.

  “Don’t lean back in the chair,” said Victoria.

  Hiram set the chair down.

  Victoria said, “Do you have any idea what happened to the letter Jube wrote?”

  “Once I signed the faked test results, he put the letter back in an inside pocket in his windbreaker. Last night when I reached Burkhardt on the cliff, he was still wearing the same jacket. I searched his pockets.”

  “Did you find the letter?”

  Hiram shook his head. “No.”

  Victoria scowled. “If Tad will discuss his situation honestly with his wife, that letter will be toothless.”

  “That won’t happen, Victoria. You don’t understand.”

  Victoria’s face flushed. “Yes, I do. Perhaps the killer took the letter.”

  Elizabeth returned from upstairs, running a comb through her damp hair. “Okay to come back?”

  Hiram nodded, and Elizabeth joined them again at the table. “Are you still talking casinos?”

  “Not exactly,” said Victoria.

  Hiram reached for his pipe absentmindedly. “Patience claims a casino will bring in jobs for Aquinnah.”

  “Go outside if you need to smoke,” said Elizabeth.

  “I don’t need to,” said Hiram, stiffly.

  “Once they build a casino, Aquinnah will sell liquor, and the town won’t be dry any longer,” Elizabeth said.

  “Some members of the tribe think that would be a benefit,” said Hiram.

  Elizabeth looked from her grandmother to Hiram. “What were you two discussing, anyway? Jube Burkhardt? You both seem really upset.”

  Victoria looked out the window.

  Hiram picked up his empty mug. “No one was quite sure where Burkhardt stood. If the tribe loses its case for sovereign immunity and can’t get permits in time, they’ll probably turn to private investors who’ve already shown interest in funding a tribal casino.”

  “Could Jube have held up the application for six months? And would that have been long enough to give a private investor an opening?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ve heard you saying at some point, Hiram, that he was upset about motorcycles. Was it the noise?”

  Victoria turned back to the table. “His house is more than a mile from the main road.”

  “It wasn’t just the bikers,” said Hiram. “He was upset about his taxes going for a casino. The taxes on his property were more than he earned, he said.”

  “He could hardly sell his family’s house,” Victoria said. “It would be like selling your child.”

  “Did he have children?” Elizabeth asked.

  “He had no family except for his nieces. At one time he planned to give his property to his younger niece, but night before last he seemed unsure.”

  “The younger niece?” Victoria was surprised. “I would have thought he’d give his property to both equally.”

  “The elder niece is fooling around with a biker.”

  “Ah,” said Elizabeth. “So that’s it.”

  “He figured he could get out of paying taxes,” Hiram said, “by giving the younger niece the property now, with a life tenancy for himself.”

  “Does she have money to pay taxes?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Burkhardt figured that was her problem, not his.”

  Elizabeth made a face. “Nice guy.”

  “During the tribal meeting, he thought about his taxes going to a casino, he told me. What right would a foreign nation have to fund a casino with U.S. taxpayers’ money?”

  “Probably be an advantage to be a foreign nation,” said Victoria.

  “A Native American tribal entity is hardly a foreign nation,” said Elizabeth. “Sovereign nation is different.” She got up, refilled Hiram’s coffee mug, and held the pot toward her grandmother.

  “No, thank you,” Victoria said. “Jube’s house has a nice view. Right on Tisbury Great Pond, surrounded on three sides by water. You can see the ocean from there.”

  “An expensive piece of property.” Hiram stirred milk and sugar into his coffee.

  “What do you think it’s worth?” Elizabeth asked.

  Hiram shrugged. “If you still have the taxpayers’ listing from the Enquirer, I can tell you.”

  Victoria lifted herself out of the chair and went into the dining room, where she sorted through a heap of papers and magazines piled on the piano bench and on the floor next to it until she found the issue Hiram wanted.

  Hiram paged through the tax supplement. “Burkhardt.” He scanned the columns. “Here it is. Burkhardt, Jubal. How does eighteen million dollars sound to you?”

  “You must be joking.” Victoria was aghast. “It couldn’t possibly be worth that much.”

  “He’s got thirty-two acres and waterfront.” Hiram peered at Victoria over the top of his glasses. “The real estate people would describe it as a charming, historic eighteenth-century Vineyard estate with water frontage.”

  “I can’t believe it. The old Mitchell place? They must have misplaced a decimal point. If it were eighteen thousand dollars, I’d be surprised.”

  “He was paying taxes on eighteen million.”

  “No wonder he took bribes,” Elizabeth said.

  Victoria looked at her watch. “I don’t know what you want of me, Hiram. You don’t intend to go to the police, which is what I advise you to do. You don’t like my suspects.”

  “I need your help, Victoria. Before I go to the police, we have to find the killer. It’s neither of your two suspects, believe me.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve used the word we,” said Victoria.

  “You’re the obvious person. You know everybody on this Island and who they’re related to. You know more history than anyone. In fact, you’ve lived much of it. And, you’ve gotten yourself a reputation as a sleuth.”

  Victoria looked down at her hands.

  “You know that Gram is a deputy police officer, don’t you?” Elizabeth asked.

  Hiram smiled. “Everybody on the Island knows.”

  “I can’t imagine what I can contribute this time.” Victoria studied him. “You’re holding something back, aren’t you, Hiram.” She waited.

  Hiram sighed again. “When Elizabeth came to get me last night, I had a hunch that the person on the cliff was Burkhardt. When I got to him, he was still alive. He mumbled a few words I couldn’t make out. Then he said clearly, ‘Sibyl,’ before he went unconscious.”

  Victoria was silent.

  Hiram repeated himself. “Just that one word, ‘Sibyl.’ “

  “Do you know anyone named Sibyl?” Victoria asked.

  “I don’t. Do you?”

  Victoria shook her head. “It’s not a common name. That was what the ancient Romans and Greeks called their oracles—Sibyl. Go to the police, Hiram.”

  “I’ll go to the police when we find something concrete that will clear me.”

  Victoria felt a presence behind her and turned to look out the window. A dark form skirted around the side of the house. “We’ve got a caller,” she said.

  Hiram, too, looked. The visitor, dressed entirely in black, had ducked into the entry. Hiram stood abruptly. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you around five this afternoon. I have something else I have to tell you.” He slipped out through the rarely used east door rather than the usual entry door to the west.

  “What’s his problem?” Elizabeth muttered.

  There was a rap on the door that Hiram hadn’t used, the door opened, and a figure stepped inside.

  Victoria leaned forward and saw a tall man wearing a black muscle shirt and black jeans. He had a huge black beard and a wild mop of curly hair with a bent osprey feather protruding from it as if from an untidy nest. His eyes were dark irises floating
in red-rimmed white seas. His feet were bare and dirty.

  Victoria got up from her chair with a broad smile.

  He greeted her, his right hand lifted.

  “Dojan!” Victoria went toward him. “You’re back!”

  CHAPTER 4

  While Dojan and Victoria were standing in the doorway discussing the torments of his life in the nation’s capital, Joe Hanover, the plumber, was making a U-turn in front of Alley’s store. He parked his pickup truck under the dying elm across the road. It was almost lunchtime.

  “Stay here, Taffy. Good girl.” Joe ruffled the hair of his golden retriever and slammed the door shut. Taffy rested her head on the window frame, her mouth open. Joe waited for an old red Volvo to pass, and crossed to the store.

  The gang was on the front porch under the overhanging roof. Donald Schwartz sat on the bench next to Sarah Germaine. Lincoln Sibert leaned against the storefront, moving his shoulders back and forth, scratching his back.

  “What’s up, Sarah?” Joe shifted the wad of Red Man in his mouth, and spit discreetly off to one side, where customers usually didn’t step.

  Donald sat with his hands on the knees of jeans that were blotched with fiberglass resin from the boatyard. “She wasn’t going to tell us until you got here.”

  Joe lifted his once-tan baseball cap, scratched his head, and settled the cap back again. Printed across the front was DRAINS R US.

  Sarah wrinkled her nose. She had a part-time job at Tribal Headquarters and was still dressed in her working clothes—black slacks and bright blue T-shirt imprinted with a portrait of a chieftain wearing a feathered bonnet.

  “That ain’t no Wampanoag.” Joe pointed his thumb at Sarah’s chest.

  Sarah looked down.

  Lincoln moved his shoulders against the storefront. “It’s not polite to point at a girl’s boobies,” he said.

  “Woman’s,” Sarah corrected automatically.

  “Okay, okay, don’t keep us in suspense.” Donald turned his head so he could look at Sarah’s Indian chief.

  “They voted for the casino?” Joe asked.

  “Nope.” Sarah shook her head.

  “They found Jube Burkhardt’s car,” said Lincoln.

  “Nope.” Sarah smirked.

  “I’m gettin’ me a cuppa coffee.” Joe reached for the handle on the screen door. “This shit is making me thirsty. Anyone else?”

  “Dojan’s back,” Sarah said abruptly, and folded her arms over the Indian’s jutting chin. The feathered headdress lifted with her breathing.

  “No shit!” Joe dropped his hand from the screen door, stepped back, and turned toward her.

  “I thought they buried him in some Indian agency in D.C.,” said Lincoln. “Rumor was he killed some guy.”

  Joe laughed. “Island rumors are as good as gospel.”

  A motorcycle went past the store followed by a second and a third.

  “All right!” said Joe. “Some fancy bikes.”

  “We’re gonna have to put up with that for the next week.” Donald indicated the passing motorcycles.

  Sarah put her hands over her ears. The bikes roared by. The first, a bright metallic purplish-blue, was driven by a biker wearing a sleeveless T-shirt with a grinning skull on the back. The two following bikes were black with shiny exhaust pipes that ran almost their entire lengths.

  “Can’t hear yourself think.” Donald shook his head as if to clear the noise out of his ears.

  “You know what those bikes were?” Lincoln’s voice had a touch of awe.

  “Harley-Davidson,” said Joe. “Can’t miss ‘em.”

  “The first was a Harley. The other two were Indian Chiefs. Antiques, probably ‘47 or ‘48.”

  “Yeah?” Joe squinted at the receding bikes. “When’s the rally begin?”

  “Not until this weekend, but a bunch of them arrived early.” Lincoln moved back against the shingles.

  “The rally’s giving a lot of money to Island charities.” Sarah looked around at the other three.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Donald shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. “Where are they staying at?”

  “All over the place,” Lincoln said. “Place I caretake, they already have half a dozen tents set up in the field.”

  “How come Dojan’s back?” Lincoln asked Sarah.

  “Peter Little called him in Washington, had him drop everything to fly here.”

  “What was the hurry?” Joe put his hands in his pockets, bent his knees, thrust his pelvis forward, and rocked back and forth from his toes to his heels.

  Sarah shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Peter sent for him?” Donald asked.

  “Chief Hawkbill told Peter to call Dojan,” Sarah said.

  “What did what’s-her-name say about all that?” Joe rocked up and down, toes to heels.

  “Patience VanDyke? What could she say? She’s not about to go against the chief.”

  “If I was her, I wouldn’t trust that slime,” Joe said.

  “You mean Peter Little?” asked Lincoln.

  “He’s after her job, believe you me,” Joe said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t trust her, neither,” Donald said. “All she cares about is money, money, money.” He rubbed his thumb and third finger together. “ ‘Poor, indigent tribe!’ she says, ‘poor me, all I can afford is this old pickup truck,’ and all the time she’s buying another half-million-dollar property.”

  “What’s she got now, three parcels?” Joe asked.

  Sarah nodded.

  “All up-Island?”

  Sarah nodded again.

  “When did Dojan get here?” Lincoln asked.

  “Yesterday. He hitchhiked from the MV airport.”

  Joe grinned. “They didn’t send a limo for him?”

  “He land on-Island before that engineer got himself killed?” Donald asked.

  Sarah nodded.

  “Wasn’t no accident. Someone gave him a shove.” Joe looked from Lincoln to Donald to Sarah. “So Dojan the killer flies in from D.C. and—bingo—the tribe gets rid of a little bitty nuisance. Pretty convenient timing, I’d say.”

  “How long will you be here, Dojan?” Victoria asked the tall, shaggy man. Dojan and she were still standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the cookroom.

  He shrugged, and the broken feather bobbed up and down.

  “I understand you’re doing a good job,” said Victoria.

  “Come on in, Dojan,” Elizabeth said. “My grandmother’s tired of standing up.”

  “Ah!” said Dojan.

  Elizabeth led them back to the cookroom, and Victoria sat in her usual chair.

  “I wear shoes,” said Dojan, when he’d seated himself. “And a suit.”

  Victoria looked thoughtfully at the Wampanoag. “You won’t have to stay there much longer. Another two years?”

  “I should be setting lobster traps now.” He grinned suddenly. “With your help, my friend.”

  Victoria smiled. “I’ll be ready. Two years will go quickly. I hear you’re living on a boat on the Potomac River?”

  “A plastic houseboat,” Dojan said with disgust. “At a yacht club. On the Washington Channel, a backwater.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “You mean, it’s not saltwater.”

  “That’s better than living in a high-rise apartment building with an elevator,” said Victoria.

  “Are you here because of all the casino talk?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Chief Hawkbill told me to come.”

  “Did you get back before that man was killed?”

  “Killed?” said Dojan.

  “They say he fell from the top of the cliffs,” said Elizabeth.

  “Who was it?”

  “Jube Burkhardt,” said Victoria. “Did you know him?”

  Dojan opened his eyes wide, and his dark irises seemed to float in bloodshot white.

  Victoria changed the subject. “Are you staying on your own boat while you’re here?”

  Do
jan nodded, and without another word, got up from the table, walked silently to the door, and slipped out.

  “He’s weird,” said Elizabeth, after he’d left.

  “Don’t underestimate Dojan. He’s different, but he’s not stupid.” Victoria looked at her watch. “We’d better get going, if we hope to do our errands.”

  “I feel sorry for him,” Victoria said, after they’d put the top down on the convertible and were on their way to Vineyard Haven.

  “I suppose the tribe is paying his yacht club fees and dockage?” Elizabeth said. “Not bad.”

  Victoria frowned. “Washington is Chief Hawkbill’s idea of punishment.”

  “Did Dojan really kill that man?”

  Victoria nodded.

  “That’s why he was so prickly when I mentioned Jube Burkhardt getting himself killed. I guess if it weren’t for the chief, Dojan would be in prison?”

  “If it weren’t for Chief Hawkbill, Dojan wouldn’t have been punished at all,” said Victoria.

  “Because of the tribe’s sovereign nation immunity?”

  “Exactly.”

  Elizabeth steered around the sharp turn by the cemetery, and the yellow ribbons on Victoria’s straw hat fluttered around her face.

  “Dojan looks awfully pale,” said Elizabeth. They were on the straight road that went past the new Ag Hall.

  Victoria smiled. “Now we can read the inscriptions on his tattoos.”

  They stopped in North Tisbury and bought sandwiches and clam chowder. Victoria held the paper bag in her lap while Elizabeth drove through the late summer traffic, down the hill into Vineyard Haven, where they came to a standstill at the end of a line of cars.

  “Hey, Mrs. Trumbull!” A teenager crossed the street between Elizabeth’s convertible and the car in front, his baseball cap on backward, his jeans drooping around his feet, the braces on his teeth sparkling in the sunlight. He slapped the hood. “Pretty sporty car.”

  “Hello, Jed,” Victoria said. “Looks as if you’ll get there before we do, wherever you’re going.”

  “It’s August.” Jed dodged among the shoppers who were ambling along Main Street and disappeared up Center Street.

  On the outskirts of town, four or five blocks and ten minutes later, they turned down the steep hill to Owen Park, and carried their lunch to a bench overlooking the harbor.