The phone rang and Victoria stepped into the cookroom to answer.

  “Sergeant Smalley, here, Mrs. Trumbull. Let me talk to Tim Eldredge.”

  Tim set down his jug of cranberry juice and a six-pack of microwave popcorn on Victoria’s countertop.

  “No beer?” Victoria asked as she handed him the phone.

  “On duty.” Tim took the phone. “Eldredge.” He suddenly tensed. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

  “Now what?” said Victoria.

  “Mrs. Hill’s been shot.”

  “The next in order of appearance,” said Dawn. Her face paled. “Rebecca Hill. The bride of Frankenstein.”

  “Shot dead?” asked Teddy’s father.

  “She was taken to the hospital, sir,” answered Tim. “Sergeant Smalley’s ordered me to get to the theater, right away. Sorry, Dawn. I’ll call a cab for you.”

  “I can give Dawn a lift in the ambulance,” said Doc Atkins.

  “If you don’t mind a little fish smell, how about a ride in my truck,” countered Teddy’s father.

  “I think I’d rather stay with Mrs. Trumbull, if that’s okay, Mrs. T?”

  “There’s plenty of room,” said Victoria. “I hope you’ve had chicken pox.”

  “The theater’s around the corner and up a couple of blocks,” said Howland. “We’ll get there faster by walking than by driving.”

  Alison kept up with Howland’s long strides. “What on earth is going on?”

  “Hate to think Bruce Duncan might be right about the characters being killed off in order of appearance.”

  “If true, Howland, we’re dealing with a psycho. Two murders, a third attempt, and a frightened boy. This is starting to fit the profile of a serial killer. As soon as he learns that Teddy is at Victoria’s …”

  “I’m thinking the same thing. Come on.” They walked faster.

  “You’d better go directly to Victoria’s,” Alison said.

  “Smalley asked me to check ever some paperwork at the theater,” said Howland. “Tim Eldredge and Junior Norton are with Victoria. I’ll talk to Smalley. Find out what the hell happened, then go on to Victoria’s. Join me there later.”

  They turned right onto Church Street. Alison checked her watch.

  “Did Smalley say who did the shooting?” Howland asked.

  “He didn’t give me any information at all, beyond the fact that they’re flying Becca to Boston.”

  A crowd had gathered in front of the theater. The West Tisbury police Bronco was there and so was a Tisbury police cruiser. Blue and red lights flashed on spectators’ faces. Katie Bowen, a reporter for The Island Enquirer, was talking to Junior Norton.

  Howland stopped. “What in hell is Junior doing here?” He dashed across the street.

  Alison followed. “At least Tim Eldredge is still at Victoria’s.”

  “No, he’s not!” Howland pointed to a state police car pulling up behind the Bronco, blue lights rotating, the same vehicle that had been parked under Victoria’s maple tree earlier. Tim Eldredge got out of the driver’s side and hitched up his belt.

  “What in hell are you doing here?” Howland shouted.

  “Sergeant Smalley ordered me to haul ass here, sir.”

  Howland caught up with him and grabbed the front of Tim’s clean uniform shirt. “Who’s with Victoria and the boy?”

  “Dawn is. And the boy’s father. Sir.” Tim lifted his chin from the collar that was getting tighter in Howland’s grip.

  “Where’s Teddy’s mother?”

  “Nobody knows, sir.”

  “Damn!” Howland released his hold.

  Tim stood up straight and smoothed his shirtfront. “Sir, I’ve got to report to Sergeant Smalley immediately.”

  Alison said, “Howland, you’d better haul ass to Victoria’s. You have your cell phone?”

  They exchanged numbers, and Howland took off at a run to get back to his car, parked on Main Street.

  Smalley climbed onto the stage and faced the audience, the cast, and the crew. He’d closed the doors as soon as he got there, and now Tim Eldredge and Junior Norton were keeping people from leaving. Who knew how many people had left before he’d arrived.

  “Sorry to detain you, folks, but as I’m sure you know by now, there’s been an accident,” he said, when the audience had stilled. “Becca Hill, who was playing the part of the bride of Frankenstein, was injured and is being airlifted to Boston.” Smalley was explaining that he would need to talk to each one of them, when his cell phone rang. “Excuse me, folks.” He turned his back to the gathering. “Smalley, here.”

  “Sergeant, we’ve been waiting for you at the jail for almost an hour.”

  The murmuring of voices behind him started up again.

  “Sorry, sheriff. Got sidetracked. There’s been a shooting at the theater. Totally slipped my mind to call you.”

  “Fatality?”

  “Not yet. They airlifted her to Boston.”

  “Further development about the county vehicle, Sergeant. Ira Bodman called from his tractor to report the van is stopped by the side of the road, engine running, driver asleep.”

  “Asleep? What about the cleanup crew?”

  “Missing.”

  “All three?”

  “Roger.”

  “Shit,” said Smalley.

  “Ira’s low on fuel and can’t stay with the van.”

  “Tell him to shut the goddamned engine down and wait.”

  “He’s headed for Morning Glory Farm on his tractor. Says he can’t shut the tractor down because he won’t be able to start it up again.”

  “For Christ’s sake, send someone from your end. I’m dealing with a hundred-fifty restless people.”

  “Sorry, Sergeant. I’m dealing with three prison escapees, four restless inmates, and what looks like a drugged driver. On the state road.”

  Smalley sighed. “Okay. I’ll put Eldredge in charge, and get there as soon as I can. What’s the location of the vehicle?”

  “At the top of the swale right around Jimmy Green’s, you know, where the heath hen …”

  “I know where it is.”

  Alison was starting up the theater’s steep stairs when she encountered Smalley, coming down.

  “You’re not leaving?”

  “Three prisoners escaped from a work detail on the West Tisbury-Edgartown Road. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “What can I do to help?” Alison looked up at him.

  “I’ve put Tim Eldredge in charge. He and Junior Norton will be taking statements from the cast. Mind helping out with that?”

  “You realize that leaves Victoria Trumbull and the boy unguarded, don’t you?”

  “I have no choice.” He was halfway down the stairs and shifted uneasily. “Explain to the audience what the procedure is, what they can expect. You know the drill.”

  “And the shooting?” asked Alison.

  “Dearborn Hill went to the hospital in the ambulance with his wife.”

  “How is she?”

  “No one’s said, at this point.” He shrugged.

  “John, shut down the play immediately.”

  “I’ve already done so.” Smalley rubbed his palm against his chin, and Alison heard the slight scratch of evening whiskers.

  “Sorry about the canceled dinner date.”

  Alison clutched the stair railing. “Not a problem. Howland filled in for you.”

  Smalley grunted. “I hate to leave you with this mess.”

  “It’s okay, John. If I can cope with chicken pox, I can cope with this.”

  CHAPTER 30

  After he’d driven through town and was on a clear stretch of road, Howland dialed Alison’s cell phone.

  “Can’t talk now,” she said. “I’m with John.”

  “What’s his problem?”

  “The roadside cleanup crew escaped.”

  “Damn,” said Howland. “That was Callaghan, the cook, I saw in the Toyota. I should have listened to Victoria.”

  “I can’t talk now,” she repeated. “I’ll call back later.”

  “Smalley got his cell phone with him?”

  “Yes,” she said, and disconnected.

  Smalley explained what he wanted Alison to do and left the theater. Alison took his place on stage. Spread out below her was a vast field of bobbing faces. She was terrified of public speaking. The murmur of voices stopped. She felt as though she were about to perform, to sing an operatic role she didn’t know, when she’d never been trained to sing, something like that.

  She spotted Roderick on the set, reassuringly familiar. He had pulled off most of his gummy makeup and had dropped the mess onto a copy of The Island Enquirer. He was scrubbing his face with a colorful beach towel.

  George Byron, still wearing the Arctic explorer’s costume, was on the end of the front row, as far away from his cousin Roderick as it was possible to get.

  The stage manager, Nora Epstein, dressed in an all-purpose costume that apparently served for the several roles she was reading, strode up to the stage apron.

  “He can’t expect me to be in four places at once.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Alison, leaning down to hear the woman above the growing murmur of the audience.

  “Dearborn Hill has me reading three parts. I can’t watch the prop table and be on stage at the same time.”

  “Please sit down, Ms … . ?”

  “Epstein,” called out George from the side. “Nora Epstein.”

  “Thank you,” said Alison. “Sit down, Ms. Epstein. No one’s blamed anyone yet.”

  The murmur of the crowd grew louder.

  Roderick, in the front row, tossed aside the towel. “It’s all my fault.”

  Nora whipped around. “Trying to get attention as usual, are you?” she snarled.

  “Return to your seat, please, immediately,” Alison ordered. After Nora was seated, Alison stood tall and raised both hands as if she were holding back traffic. The murmuring stopped. That was satisfying.

  “We’ll be taking statements from all of you.” She looked down at the front row. George Byron grinned at her. “To expedite the process, count off, from one to three. All ones up on stage with Sergeant Norton, twos in the back of the auditorium with Trooper Eldredge, and threes downstairs in the café with me.”

  While the audience was shouting out “one,” “two,” “three,” one by one from the first row all the way to the back of the theater, she moved from the stage apron and dialed Howland’s cell phone.

  “Where are you now?” she asked.

  “Almost at the town line.”

  “Any thoughts?” she asked.

  “I believe we’re dealing with one killer.”

  “I agree,” she said.

  “He’s either a lousy shot, or didn’t have a clear view of the bride. She was on the bed in that scene. Damn these mopeds,” Howland grunted. “Four of them strung out, so I can’t pass. Was it Becca for sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “As soon as the killer learns Teddy’s at Victoria’s, he’s going after him. Victoria can’t keep him safe all by herself.”

  “His father’s there,” said Alison. “So is Dawn.”

  “The killer missed Teddy the first go round. He’ll try again. Bruce Duncan is right.”

  “Fits the profile of a serial killer.”

  “I’ve got to pass these mopeds,” said Howland. “No sense of self-preservation.” After a moment, he continued. “Besides you, me, Victoria, and his father, who knows where Teddy is?”

  “I called his dad, and Victoria called Sergeant Smalley. I’m sure John’s informed all the other Island police departments. With the good news that Teddy’s safe, he probably announced it over the scanner.”

  “Everyone on this Island has a scanner.”

  “What about Teddy’s father?”

  “I don’t know,” said Howland. “Wait a sec. I have to turn onto Old County Road.” Moments later he came back on. “I don’t know about Dawn Haines, either. Or Roderick. Or Bruce Duncan. Or that smart-ass George Byron.”

  “His mother owns the playhouse. She wouldn’t want her son acting in this particular play, would she?”

  “No love lost between Ruth Byron and her sister. Wonder if anyone’s thought to inform Ruth that her sister’s been shot?”

  “I’ve got to get back to my audience. They’ve finished counting off.”

  “What?” said Howland, but she hung up without answering.

  The woman driving the blue Toyota dropped Red Callaghan off at Cronig’s State Road Market. Atherton had seen him, he knew, and he wanted to distance himself from the blue Toyota as soon as possible. He waited until the car was out of sight, then hitchhiked past Vineyard Haven and into Oak Bluffs. At the crowded steamship authority ticket office, he picked up a boat schedule and sauntered past the restrooms to the seawall beyond, where he leaned against the railing, studying the schedule and gazing out at Nantucket Sound.

  “Darling!”

  He turned, smiled, and held out his arms to the small woman with dark hair who rushed up to him and snuggled against him.

  “God, it’s good to see you, Amanda. Two months in that crummy lockup …”

  “You got all the stuff I sent you?”

  He opened his arms. “I’m here, thanks to you.”

  “No trouble?”

  “Like a charm. Assigned to roadside cleanup duty, prepared snacks, coffee, and lemonade for the driver, driver dozed off, and I left. Easy as that. You bring a shaving kit and money?”

  “And a wig and a clean shirt.”

  “You doll. Let me have it. I’ll hit the john and shave off my mustache before we get the tickets.”

  “Not your gorgeous mustache?”

  He stroked the lush auburn growth. “Afraid so.”

  When he returned, he was clean-shaven and no longer bald. Amanda was leaning against the railing, her back to the water.

  She laughed. “Hello, stranger. I wouldn’t have recognized you. You look so … so dignified.”

  Callaghan ran his hand over his smooth upper lip. “What do you hear about your kid?” he asked as they sauntered toward the ticket office.

  “The police called off the search for him.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t know what it means. They haven’t told me.”

  They bought two round-trip tickets and stood where they could watch traffic on the roads that led to the wharf.

  “They’re not going to call off a search for a missing kid.” Callaghan leaned against the railing next to her and scanned the roads. “Cops don’t give up when it comes to kids.”

  “If they’ve found him, they’d call me right away, wouldn’t they? His mother?” Her eyes were moist.

  “They know where to reach you?”

  She pulled her phone out of her pocketbook. “Damn! I forgot to recharge it. They’ve got my number at Mrs. Trumbull’s. I’ll check when I get back.”

  “Since the kid isn’t that keen on California, you think he ran away?”

  “He wouldn’t do that. He’s a good boy. I hope his blankety-blank father didn’t snatch him.”

  “That likely?”

  “Wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “About California … ?”

  Amanda sighed. “The TV deal fell through.”

  “What?” Callaghan opened his eyes wide. “I thought the contract was signed and sealed?”

  “I thought so, too. But they wouldn’t close the deal without Teddy’s father’s signature, since we’re not divorced yet.”

  “And the old man wouldn’t sign?”

  She shook her head. “He refused. Point blank. I told you what they offered me, didn’t I?”

  “Offered you? Thought it was Teddy who got the offer.”

  “The contract was made out to me. Close to a million dollars. Nobody hands out that kind of money to an eight-year-old boy. I’m his mother.” She patted her chest. “His legal guardian. But the lawyers at the studio insisted on both parents signing. Sexist. If I were Teddy’s father, you can bet the lawyers wouldn’t insist on the mother’s signature, too.”

  Callaghan looked thoughtful. “So you won’t be sharing the million with his old man.”

  “Looks like I won’t be sharing the million with you, either. We’re wasting time.” Amanda moved away from the railing and started to walk toward the dock. “We’ve got to get you off the Island.”

  “Damn right. Atherton spotted me.”

  “What!” She turned and stared at him.

  “The two round-trip passenger tickets will throw them off temporarily. The cops will look for a single guy, bald with a mustache, not a couple with a distinguished, clean-shaven, gray-haired gentleman.” He patted the silver wig. “Return to the Island on the next boat, and I’ll get myself lost.”

  “What about us?”

  “Recharge your phone. I’ll give you a call when I’m somewhere safe. In the meantime, we’ve gotta get on that boat,” he nodded at the boarding ferry. “Now.”

  People and cars were moving down the long dock.

  “Walk,” said Callaghan. “Don’t run.”

  They boarded. Callaghan and Amanda went up the stairs to the upper deck.

  As the ferry pulled away from its slip, they looked back at the town. A police car, blue lights flashing, was driving the wrong way up the one-way street that led to the dock.

  Leonard Vincent, Peg’s ex-husband, was working on his new house in Chilmark, listening to WMVY’s album sound and halfway listening to the scanner, when he heard the announcement that a missing boy had been located and was safe.

  He set down the nail gun, turned WMVY down, and the scanner up. Had to be the Vanderhoop kid. Guarded conversation on the scanner went back and forth, and pretty soon Lennie Vincent guessed that Teddy Vanderhoop, age eight, definitely was the found boy. Where had the kid been hiding? Quite possibly with Victoria Trumbull, he thought. The kid had seen something the night Peg was killed. But what?