“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.
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.
Howland 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.”
“
Frankenstein
? For a criminal justice degree?”
“English.” Smalley was still grinning. “Criminal justice came later. Who did the stage adaptation?”
“Victoria Trumbull.”
“Ah, of course. That’s why she was brought in tonight. Difficult to stage, I should think.”
“According to her, the original ending was too complicated.”
Smalley grinned. “You mean, where the monster goes off to the North Pole to collect his funeral pile and ‘exult in the agony of the torturing flames’? I’ve always wondered where he intended to get the fuel.”
Howland grunted.
“By the way, the entire cast, stage crew, and Mrs. Trumbull are downstairs. So is West Tisbury’s police chief.”
“What’s Casey doing here?”
“As you know, Mrs. Trumbull is the chief’s deputy.”
At that, Howland laughed. “You heard how that came about, didn’t you?”
“Never did.”
“Victoria lost her driver’s license after she backed into the Meals on Wheels van,” said Howland. “Casey felt sorry for her and offered Victoria a ride any time she needed to go someplace. So Casey acquired an ancient sidekick.”
“Pretty sharp sidekick, I’d say,” said Smalley.
“Casey’s learned a lot from her. Victoria knows everyone on the Island, who they’re related to, who they’re not speaking to, where the skeletons are buried.” Howland shifted position. “I hope they thought to give Victoria something to eat.”
“They’re having a regular tea party downstairs, listening to Mrs. Trumbull’s stories.” Smalley stood up and headed to the door. “Let’s get out of this depressing room. We’ve got coffee and raspberry pastries downstairs. Chef Callaghan is cooking breakfast for the whole gang, including the residents.”
Howland massaged his wrists as they went downstairs. “The forensic guy won’t have much to work on if he doesn’t hurry.”
“She,” said Smalley. “Dr. McAlistair, M.D., Ph.D. She should be here by now. She was coming over on the morning paper boat. Gets in to Oak Bluffs around three-thirty.”
“I can hardly wait to meet her.”
“She’s only been with the department a few months. She comes from Washington. Naval Intelligence. Turn left at the foot of the stairs.”
“Thought we were heading for breakfast.”
“Before we join the others, you’re going to the lab.”
Howland looked over his shoulder. “Since when did the jail get a lab?”
“About an hour ago. It’s the sheriff’s toilet.”
“Great,” said Howland.
“Through his office.” Smalley slapped his hand on a doorframe as they passed. “You have any idea how old Teddy is?”
“Eight years old.”
“Not easy to play a five-year-old when you’re eight.”
“Teddy’s a pro,” said Howland. “When he meets the monster in the woods, you believe he is one scared little kid.”
“What’s he going to play in the TV series?”
“A kid his own age. Don’t know much about it beyond that.”
The lights were off in the sheriff’s office, and Smalley switched them on.
“How did you learn they were missing so soon?” Howland asked.
“Teddy’s mother called Peg’s house from LA around eight-thirty our time, when she expected Teddy and Peg to get back from the play. She tried to reach Peg for the next couple of hours. Got increasingly worried.” Smalley leaned against the doorframe. Howland perched on the corner of the sheriff’s desk. “Around midnight our time,” Smalley continued, “she called the Tisbury police, said she was afraid her husband might have kidnapped the boy. The Tisbury cops went to Ms. Storm’s house. The power was off. Doors unlocked. They had a quick look around by flashlight. Costumes dropped on the dining room floor. Tisbury asked for our assistance.”
“Has anyone contacted Teddy’s father?”
“No answer at his house.”
“How thoroughly did the Tisbury cops search Peg’s house?”
“Just the first floor. State troopers are going back with a search warrant.” Smalley checked his watch. “They’re probably waking up the magistrate to sign the warrant now, as we speak.”
“What about Peg’s car?”
“Her car was in her driveway, a cold pizza in a box on the front seat. The lights were on next door at Teddy’s house.”
“People don’t simply disappear in the middle of the night on this Island.”
Smalley shrugged. “Those two have. A thirty-two-year-old woman and an eight-year-old boy. Did she run off with him for some reason? If so, why not take her car?”
“Probably went to a late movie, or out for pizza.”
“Not with a pizza in her car.”
“Night fishing, then,” said Howland. “You’re going to feel foolish when they show up this morning with a couple of twelve-pound bluefish they caught surfcasting last night.”
Smalley ran his hand over the back of his neck. “I hope so,” he mumbled. “I hope so.”
The large, old-fashioned bathroom behind the jailer’s office had a claw-foot tub on which someone had laid a sheet of plywood covered with white butcher paper. On the paper were a binocular microscope, several brown bottles, paper evidence bags, a box of latex gloves, a couple of glass petri dishes, and a few instruments.
A woman Howland had never seen before sat on the commode lid with a folding table in front of her, typing on a laptop. She was in her mid-fifties, with streaky blond hair pulled away from her face and held back with clips.
Smalley said, “Howland Atherton, meet Dr. McAlistair.”
The woman removed her half-frame glasses and looked up. “Good heavens!”
“They insisted I leave the makeup on until you examined the stuff on my face.”
“Quite right.” She had a faintly British accent. “Sorry you had to wait so long. We had to get a warrant to take a sample.” She made a wry face and offered her hand.
Howland held up his hairy claws. “You don’t want to shake.”
“Right.” She stood up and came out from behind the table. She was slender and at least six feet tall, only a couple of inches shorter than Howland’s usual height, and was wearing a starched white lab coat that came down to her knees. “Let’s get that stuff off your face and hands. Must be uncomfortable.” She looked down at his feet. “And take those things off. Do you have shoes with you?”
“They’re in my car.”
“You might want to get them.”
“The car is eleven miles from here,” said Smalley, who was standing by the door. “We’ll see that he gets back to it when we’ve finished up.”
Dr. McAlistair pointed to a metal stool. “Sit down, Mr. Atherton, and I’ll relieve you of the makeup and booties.” As she eased off his awkward furry footgear, she murmured, “I wear bunny slippers, myself.”
Howland peered at her from beneath his overhanging brows. She was smiling.
“I’ll see you in the dining room,” said Smalley and left.
For the next half-hour, Dr. McAlistair scraped and bagged and labeled the stuff she removed from Howland’s face and hands. Howland was content to sit quietly. When all of the makeup was off, she handed him a jar of cold cream and a box of tissues.
Howland scrubbed his face for several minutes and ran his fingers through his hair.
Dr. McAlistair examined him critically. “Quite an improvement.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Howland, wadding up the last of the tissues and tossing them into the wastebasket.
“You know where the dining room is?”
Howland nodded.
She put her glasses back on and returned to her seat and the laptop. “I’ll join you in a bit.”
Gray morning light filtered through the dusty barred windows of the sheriff’s office as Howland headed to the dining room. He was still wearing the baggy black trousers and jacket of the monster, but the makeup was finally off. He felt light. He carried his costume boots, and his bare feet squeaked on the linoleum. A robin chirruped in the patch of raspberry canes behind the parking area. He was hungry and thirsty, but he was
free of the glop he’d had on since seven last night. It must be close to five now. Ten hours.
He thought about the missing boy, a nice kid, bright, quirky sense of humor, a redhead with a toothy grin. A talented actor. The makeup people had blacked out those new front teeth of Teddy’s to turn him into a kindergartner instead of the second grader he was, and he’d been entirely professional.
As Howland turned toward the dining room, he thought with some regret that Dearborn Hill, with his pompous talk, had not been a murder victim after all. Victoria Trumbull defended Dearborn’s directing, but Howland knew how she felt about his push for a professional, as opposed to amateur, theater here.
He reached the dining room, opened the door, and looked around. Narrow folding tables had been pushed together to form one wide table. Two dozen people were seated around it, conversing quietly. State Trooper Tim Eldredge, on one side of Smalley, was holding his hand over his mouth, stifling a yawn. Howland glanced away. He felt himself yawning, too.
Conversation stopped briefly when he came in.
“Still in costume, Howland?” said Dearborn Hill, who sat next to Roderick, his nephew. They had turned toward the door when Howland entered. Dearborn’s arms were folded across his chest, and he was leaning back in his chair.
Roderick Hill, the understudy for the monster, looked Howland up and down carefully. Howland set his boots on the floor next to him. “Care to try them on?”
After a few greetings, people went back to whatever they’d been doing—talking, reading, crossword puzzles, dozing.
The room was the size of a large family dining room, bare except for two tables and a stack of plastic chairs. At one end was a pass-through from the kitchen. Howland could smell coffee and bacon. Something sizzled. Fried potatoes, maybe. The cook, Chef Callaghan, moved back and forth, clattering pots and pans.
Howland stopped at the pass-through. “Callaghan,” he called.
The cook looked up and sauntered over. He was in his forties, older than most of the kids Howland picked up on drug charges. His shaven head glistened. A lush auburn mustache drooped down on either side of his mouth. He wiped his hands on his apron and offered one to Howland. “Whaddya say, copper.”
Howland shook hands.
Callaghan leaned out across the sill and examined Howland’s costume. “Where’d the blood come from?”
“I’m in a play,” said Howland.
The chef grinned. “Sure.”
“Appreciate your cooking for us,” added Howland.
“What I do.”
“You look like hell,” Howland said. “You get outside enough?”
Callaghan shrugged. “I weed the garden. Pick vegetables.” He grinned again. “Tend a small crop I got going in the raspberry patch.”
“I hope not,” said Howland. “You’ve been here a month?”
“Twenty-seven days, twelve hours.”
“You want to put in for trash pickup along the state road? If you’re interested, I’ll vouch for you.”
“Maybe.” And Callaghan turned away.
“Talk to the sheriff,” Howland said to his back, and, feeling unsettled, he moved on to where the cast had assembled around the table.
Smalley greeted him. “Have a seat, Mr. Atherton. You know everyone here, I believe.” He nodded around the table at cast members, stagehands, technical crew, summer theater interns, and a few unfamiliar faces. “Callaghan’s cooking breakfast for us all, including the usual guests, who’ll eat theirs in the TV room.”
Victoria, seated across from Dearborn at the opposite end of
the table, frowned. She had scolded Howland once for leaning back in a chair the way the director was leaning in the jailhouse chair.
When she saw Howland, Victoria lifted a knobby hand in greeting, and he joined her and West Tisbury’s police chief, Mary Kathleen O’Neill, who sat on Victoria’s right.
“Morning, Casey,” said Howland.
The chief examined Howland’s blood-soaked jacket and trousers. “Some outfit,” she said.
“You should have seen me before.” In addition to cleaning off the thick makeup, Howland had removed his hairy mitts and bridgework fangs before he’d left Dr. McAlistair.
Victoria passed the pastries and he helped himself.
The high school student who played Frankenstein’s bride stood by the coffeemaker at the side of the room. “Coffee, Mr. Atherton?” She tossed her long, dark braid over one shoulder.
“Please, Dawn.”
“What do you take in it?”
“Everything. Double cream, double sugar.”
He bit into the flaky pastry. Raspberry juice dribbled down his face and he mopped it with a paper napkin.
Dawn set the coffee in front of him and took her seat next to Tim Eldredge. Howland watched with amusement as she turned large brown eyes on Tim, who was too exhausted to notice. The table was littered with the detritus of hours of waiting—papers and books, coffee cups, crumpled paper napkins, crumbs. Underlying the aroma of bacon and coffee was the odor of tired and nervous people.
Sergeant Smalley, looking crisp and fresh in his blazer and white shirt, and Tim Eldredge, looking shopworn in his crumpled uniform and shadow of a beard, were seated between Dawn and one of the stagehands. Bruce Duncan, who played Frankenstein’s boyhood friend, sat on Dawn’s left. He was mild looking and balding, in his early thirties, wearing a black sweatshirt
with crimson letters that read “VETA” in capital letters, with “Vineyarders for the Ethical Treatment of Animals” below, in smaller letters.
Smalley rapped on the table. “Now that Frankenstein’s monster is here we can finish up.” He turned to Howland. “Mr. Atherton, I’ve already taken individuals aside and asked them to tell me anything they know that might help us find Teddy Vanderhoop and Peg Storm.”
Bruce Duncan slicked a loose strand of hair over the top of his head and folded his hands on the tabletop. “Peg has a dog. Sandy, I believe. Have you found Sandy?”
Smalley coughed politely. “I’m sure we will, Mr. Duncan.” He looked down at his notes. “As I said earlier, I called you out in the middle of the night because the first few hours after a child is reported missing are critical. You were the last people, as far as we know, to have seen Teddy and Ms. Storm.”
Howland glanced around the table. Dearborn Hill, still leaning back in his chair, was making soft smacking sounds with his lips. He wore a black V-neck sweater over a black turtleneck shirt. Victoria looked down at her hands. Chief O’Neill, in uniform, on Victoria’s right, was doodling on a piece of scrap paper. Bruce Duncan was cleaning his fingernails nervously with a nail clipper. Dawn Haines was drawing something in a large spiral-bound sketchpad. Occasionally, she’d brush stray wisps of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand.
“I questioned most of you, individually, before Mr. Atherton got here,” Smalley said. “Who is missing, besides Teddy and Peg Storm?”
Howland bit into his pastry and wiped his mouth.
Dawn said, still sketching, “Billy Amaral.”
Smalley looked up from his notes. “What part does Billy Amaral play?”
“The understudy for Frankenstein.
Victor
Frankenstein, my, like, creepy bridegroom.” Dawn reached her hand to the back of
her neck and flipped her braid over her shoulder so it hung down the front of her dark green T-shirt.
Dearborn Hill leaned forward and addressed Smalley. “I play Victor Frankenstein.”
Smalley studied the artistic director. “Frankenstein was quite a young man, early twenties, I believe.”
Dearborn Hill smiled. “An audience will believe whatever an accomplished actor wants them to believe.”
Dawn looked up from her sketching. “Billy left early, after the second act.”
“How many acts are there?” Smalley asked. “Two?”
“Three,” said Victoria.
“I had specifically asked Billy to be present for notes and curtain call rehearsal,” said Dearborn. “He’s understudying the most important role in the play, and he needs to work on his timing.” He glanced from one actor to another. “I certainly don’t expect anything to happen to me, but it’s a matter of professionalism.” He placed his hand on his breast. “This is a classic example of why our theater must go Equity.”
Victoria scowled. “We don’t need an Equity theater. We like to see our friends and neighbors on stage.”
“Mrs. Trumbull …” Dearborn said.
Victoria continued, “Who wants to see third-rate paid actors from New York?”
“Mrs. Trumbull,” said Dearborn, with studied patience, “your so-called ’third-rate actors’ are professionals. A professional director can depend upon trained professionals. A professional director can never depend upon amateurs.”
Smalley rapped on the table. “Anyone else missing?”
“Ruth Byron,” said Dawn Haines, glancing up at Victoria, then down again at her sketch.
“Remind me who Ruth Byron is,” requested Smalley.
“Ruth Byron is my wife’s sister,” Dearborn said.
“Was she at the rehearsal?”
“Yes,” said Victoria.
“No,” said Dearborn at the same moment.
“She was in the back of the theater,” said Dawn.
Victoria added, “She founded the Island Players as a community venture for people who like to see their friends and neighbors act.”
Dearborn smiled. “You’re repeating yourself, Mrs. Trumbull.”
Smalley turned to him. “Your wife’s sister?”
“Yes. My wife is Rebecca Byron Hill.”
“The people missing, then,” Smalley went on, “are Teddy, who plays the part of William Frankenstein, and Peg, who plays the part of Justine Moritz, the housekeeper accused of murdering little William.” He looked up. “Also missing are Billy Amaral, the understudy for Frankenstein …”