“Yes.”

  “Let me get my hat.”

  “You don’t want to see this, Victoria. It won’t be pleasant. I’ll give you the scoop the minute I know anything that can be released to the press.”

  “I’ll leave a note for Elizabeth, then I’ll be ready.”

  Twenty minutes later, Howland pulled up to the rear entrance of the Rose Haven Funeral Parlor and parked in the lot next to the loading ramp. Victoria let herself out of the car.

  “Victoria …” Howland started to say.

  But she interrupted him. “I suppose we’ll be using the back door.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Toby, the undertaker, greeted Victoria and Howland at the back door of the mortuary. “Are you here for a viewing?”

  “We’re here for Peg Storm’s autopsy,” said Victoria.

  “Ah!” said Toby. “Yes. Dr. McAlistair doesn’t perform autopsies here on Island. This is a preliminary cause-of-death assessment. The autopsy will be performed in Boston. Dr. McAlistair and Sergeant Smalley are still at lunch.”

  Howland checked his watch. “It’s one-thirty, for God’s sake.”

  “We’ll wait,” said Victoria, and returned to Howland’s car.

  Smalley and Alison arrived a few minutes later. “What are you doing here, Mrs. Trumbull?” Smalley demanded.

  “That’s all right, John,” said Alison, putting a hand on Smalley’s arm. “Mrs. Trumbull is welcome to observe.”

  “‘John?’” said Howland.

  Alison smiled.

  They followed Alison up the concrete ramp and through the industrial steel doors where Toby waited. He was dressed in gray trousers, a black blazer with a red V-neck sweater showing underneath, white shirt, and black-and-white striped tie.

  “Dr. McAlistair,” he gushed. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Alison nodded.

  The room, chilly and immaculate, smelled of formalin. The cement-block walls were painted a shiny light gray, the concrete floor a dark gray. A sheet-draped form laid out on a stainless steel table occupied the center of the room.

  Toby produced a clean, starched lab coat and held it for Alison, who slipped her arms into it. He turned to the others. “Stay behind that line, if you will, please.” He pointed to a red stripe on the floor.

  Alison donned a facemask and snapped on latex gloves. She pulled the sheet down gently, uncovering Peg’s face, neck, and shoulders.

  Victoria shut her eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

  Alison studied Peg without touching her at first. Then she examined Peg’s throat, looked into her mouth, lifted Peg’s closed eyelids.

  She turned to Victoria. “The fall down the steps didn’t kill her.”

  Howland grunted.

  Smalley stepped forward. “What have you found, Dr. McAlistair?”

  “Strangled?” Victoria asked.

  “Quite likely,” said Alison. “You may cross the red line, Mrs. Trumbull. Look here.” She pointed out what looked to Victoria like thumb marks on the front of Peg’s neck, then turned Peg’s head slightly, and Victoria saw, clearly, finger marks on the sides of her neck.

  Smalley cleared his throat.

  “It’s not as obvious as you may think, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Alison, ignoring Smalley. “Some fabric object was first pressed against her face. A pillow or towel, something like that.” She moved a large magnifying lens that hung from an overhead armature to Peg’s face. “You can see fibers. I’ll collect and bag them, and the state police lab in Sudbury will identify them.” She moved the glass so Victoria could see the marks on Peg’s neck. “I don’t believe she was smothered to death, though. She may or may not have lost consciousness, and was then strangled.”

  “Dr. McAlistair …” said Smalley.

  Alison pulled the sheet back over Peg’s face, and then removed her gloves and facemask. She tossed them into the plastic-lined trash container, then slipped off the still-immaculate lab coat. Victoria was about to protest about wasteful laundering, when Toby dropped it into a nearby hamper.

  “You saw me look at her eyes?” Alison asked.

  Victoria nodded.

  “I found small red dots or streaks on the whites of her eyes and her eyelids. Petechial hemorrhages. Typical of asphyxiation. Caused by blood leaking from ruptured capillaries. Most assuredly, she did not die by falling down the stairs.”

  “You’re talking to a member of the press, you know,” Howland grumbled.

  Smalley, who’d been pacing back and forth behind the red line, said, “This information is not to leave the room.”

  “We’ll need to perform a complete autopsy on Ms. Storm,” said Alison, nodding to both Howland and Smalley. “We’ll take her to Boston for that. I’ll give you what little information I can, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  Howland dropped Victoria at her house, leaving with a cryptic comment about girls and sororities. Victoria didn’t respond. She sat in her caned armchair at the cookroom window watching thunderclouds build up in the west and thought about Peg’s death. Who would have harmed her, and why? She’d been a pleasant, friendly young woman.

  And she thought about Teddy. If she were an eight-year-old boy, where would she go? The phone rang, startling her.

  “Victoria? Ruth Byron here. I’ve been trying to reach you for the past hour. I need to talk to you.” Her voice quavered with anger. “How can he consider opening the play tonight under the circumstances? Even Equity players have more sensitivity.”

  Victoria listened to the Island Playhouse founder until she finally wound down, then remarked, “A professional troupe, according to Dearborn, doesn’t let mere death disrupt a performance.”

  “An actress dead and a child gone missing?”

  “Tonight’s performance is sold out.”

  “How crass,” Ruth sputtered. “Any publicity is good, no matter how tasteless, according to him. I don’t know what possessed my sister to marry that man in the first place. Or me to hire him,” she added bitterly. “I suppose I was trying to get my sister off my back.”

  Victoria traced the pattern of the red-checked tablecloth with her thumbnail. “He’s a good director. You recognized that. Your sister is an actress, too, isn’t she?”

  Ruth snorted. “So she claims. You knew Dearborn had been fired from his two previous directing jobs, didn’t you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Drinking. Rebecca has no talent and yet she behaves like a prima donna. No one wants to hire her. And Dearborn can’t hold down a director’s job because of his drinking.” Ruth paused. “Nine months ago I made him an offer. I hired him on the condition that he quit drinking and join AA.”

  “The automobile association?”

  Ruth ignored Victoria’s attempt at humor. “Every time Dearborn sobers up, Rebecca finds him just too, too boring, so they separate.”

  “I understand that often happens when one spouse is a recovering alcoholic.”

  “Those two have gone through the cycle—drinking, drying out, Becca leaving, Dearborn drinking again, reconciliation—I can’t tell you how many times. You’d think I’d have known better than to believe my offer would change things.”

  “Where’s your sister now?”

  “She’s still in touch with Dearborn, even though they’re living apart,” said Ruth. “Right now they’re concocting a scheme to get the theater away from me.”

  “Equity?”

  “Convincing my backers that the theater should go Equity, yes. I didn’t found the theater as a profit-making venture.”

  “Why is your sister doing this to you?”

  “Aunt Fifi left the building to me. With the stipulation that it be used as a community theater. Rebecca has always resented that. Not real theater, says Rebecca, as if she knows what real theater is. You’ll never make money, she says. Well, I don’t want to make money, Victoria. Ticket sales cover the utility bills, with enough left over to keep up the building.”

  “Doesn’t she know, a community theater is supposed to be just that? Community members having a good time putting on plays for others’ enjoyment?”

  “You don’t need to convince me, Victoria. But those two are pushing, pushing, pushing for Equity theater, Equity actors, Equity salaries …”

  “And Equity ticket prices. I’m sorry I agreed to write that play. I’ve let you down by working with Dearborn, I’m afraid.”

  “You wrote it at my request, Victoria. This Equity issue came up later, after we’d started rehearsals.”

  Victoria moved her chair so she could get a better view of the brewing storm. High up, the thunderheads were flattening into classic anvil shapes. “Howland has refused to go on stage tonight as the monster, so the understudy is taking his place.”

  “Roderick?” Ruth groaned. “That ham. Who’s taking over Peg’s role now she’s dead?”

  “The stage manager.”

  “Nora? Oh dear. And Teddy’s role?”

  “Dearborn had a friend’s daughter in reserve.” Victoria shifted the phone to her other ear. “He plans to round up actors to read the parts of Frankenstein’s bride and …”

  “Dawn Haines dropped out? That’s a surprise. She’s a fine actress.”

  “She’s not fond of Dearborn.”

  “Who else?”

  “Gerard Cohen, who plays the blind man.”

  “I thought Gerard was a friend of Himself?”

  “Gerard was a friend of Peg’s, too.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Ruth was quiet.

  “Bruce Duncan has bowed out.”

  “Isn’t he on Dearborn’s team?”

  “Bruce is convinced life is following art.”

  “That’s stretching credulity.”

  “Bruce is good at that,” said Victoria.

  “Who’s taking over his role?”

  “Robert Scott, who plays the Arctic explorer.”

  Ruth paused for a long moment. “Dearborn was asking for trouble, casting Bob in that play. In any part.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure you want to hear this, Victoria. Bob and my sister, Rebecca, had, and probably are still having, a broiling hot affair, ever since Dearborn went on his latest wagon. That’s part of their cycle. When he’s on the wagon, she beds down some ape-man primitive. When Dearborn starts drinking again, Rebecca dumps her latest. Bob Scott thinks he’s IT with Rebecca, in capital letters. He’s not.” Ruth changed the subject abruptly.

  “You did a superb job of adapting the book to the stage, Victoria. Kept to the story while avoiding the difficult parts.”

  “Doesn’t this kind of behavior on Rebecca’s part bother Dearborn?”

  “He’s so involved in himself, I’m not sure he notices.”

  “Robert Scott seems utterly different from Dearborn, rather a natural being.”

  “You mean unwashed and nonintellectual,” said Ruth.

  “Robert Scott seems a logical substitute for Bruce Duncan,” Victoria added. “He’s not a bad actor, and the Arctic explorer appears only at the very beginning and end of the play. The two are never on stage at the same time.”

  “I can’t get over how wrong Dearborn is for going ahead with opening night,” said Ruth. “The entire cast should be out searching for Teddy.”

  “Peg was so thrilled when she got a part in the play,” Victoria mused.

  “Such a freak accident.”

  “Accident …” Victoria started to say more, but an image of Smalley made her stop.

  “You don’t think it was an accident?”

  Victoria was silent.

  Ruth cleared her throat. “I don’t want to get into that, Victoria. Actually, I called you for another reason. My son.”

  “George? He’s in graduate school now, isn’t he?”

  “Yale Drama,” said Ruth. “His advisor called this morning to say George hasn’t shown up for classes for a couple of days, and she’s concerned.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  Elizabeth tiptoed into the kitchen, filled the teakettle, and plugged it in. Victoria looked up and lifted a hand.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Ruth. “When I told George about Uncle Dearborn and Aunt Rebecca and their latest move, he was as upset as I am, more so. He has my Irish blood. I suspect he’s on his way to the Island to do battle for me.”

  “Good.”

  “No, no, Victoria. He mustn’t tangle with Dearborn. He’ll only make things worse. This is why I wanted to talk to you. He’ll ruin his career before it starts. If you see George, please talk to him. He’ll listen to you.”

  “I’ll gladly hold his coat for him,” said Victoria.

  Dearborn Hill had been on the phone most of the morning trying to find actors willing to substitute for those who’d refused to go on stage tonight. Opening night. Amateurs, all of them. His hair was no longer artistically rumpled. He’d run his fingers through it so many times it was lank and disheveled. He’d had so many cups of coffee, his hands shook. He wanted a drink badly. Becca’s sanctimonious sister had offered him the artistic director’s job with too many strings attached, he thought with resentment. Twice he’d gotten up from his desk, ready to drive to the liquor store in Oak Bluffs. Then he realized how little time he had and went back to making his phone calls.

  There’d be a sell-out crowd tonight, he told himself. Peg’s death and Teddy’s disappearance would guarantee ticket sales. The substitute actors would have to read their parts, but the audience would understand. Add to the enjoyment.

  He’d found a new little William right away, the precocious seven-year-old daughter of a board member.

  Bob Scott would play two parts, the Arctic explorer and Bruce Duncan’s role as Frankenstein’s boyhood friend.

  Did Nature Boy think he didn’t notice what was going on between him and Becca? Dearborn smiled to himself. One of these days, he’d take care of Bob Scott. No hurry.

  What an ass Bruce Duncan was. Wooden when he was on stage, theatrical when he was off. Even Scott was a better actor.

  He hadn’t found a substitute yet for Gerard Cohen, who played the blind father. He was surprised when Cohen refused to go on tonight. Cohen was one of his supporters. He, Dearborn, could play both the blind man and Victor Frankenstein. The two were never on stage at the same time.

  The bride of Frankenstein was a problem. As insufferable as she was, Dawn Haines was an excellent actress, knew her lines, didn’t over-emote, knew how to cover for someone else’s missed lines. Dearborn tapped his fingers on the desk and slapped his shirt pocket as though he still carried cigarettes. He’d quit smoking three years ago.

  And then he had an idea. What was Victoria Trumbull’s granddaughter’s name? Perfect. She’d be perfect. Elizabeth Trumbull, that was it. He picked up the phone and dialed Victoria’s number.

  Elizabeth answered. “Absolutely not,” she said, when he identified himself and told her why he was calling. “No way.”

  Dearborn Hill could be charming when he wanted to be. He talked about her grandmother’s play. The work, the art, the soul her grandmother had put into her adaptation of the old classic. He spoke about the traditions of the theater. The show must go on. He mentioned gently and tastefully how Peg’s passing would be honored. He avoided any talk of the sell-out crowd he hoped to attract. He cajoled, apologized, appealed to her loyalty to her grandmother, appealed to her sense of vanity, and, under other circumstances, might have worn Elizabeth down.

  She looked up and saw her grandmother’s expression.

  Victoria was variously described as looking like an owl or an eagle. Now, she looked like a stone warrior. Her flushed cheeks seemed to be daubed with war paint. Her deepset hooded eyes glittered.

  “Sorry, Dearborn. Find someone else,” Elizabeth said, and disconnected.

  On his end, before Elizabeth hung up, Dearborn heard what was unmistakably Victoria Trumbull’s low, clear voice saying, “The idea! The very idea!” and he frowned as he pressed the button that cut off the connection.

  “Why on earth would he call here?” Victoria sputtered. “‘The show must go on,’ indeed. How unfeeling! How mercenary! My own granddaughter … !”

  Elizabeth held up her hands to ward off her grandmother. “Hey, Gram. I told him no. Anyway, I’ve got to work tonight.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Elizabeth left for the afternoon shift at the harbor, where she was assistant dockmaster, and Victoria was alone again. She tapped her fingers absently on the space bar of her typewriter until the bell dinged. Where would she hide if she were eight years old?

  She went back to work on her column. Thunder grumbled in the distance. She heard a knock on the kitchen door, and she opened it to two girls wearing jeans, backpacks, and running shoes. They smiled uncomfortably.

  “Mrs. Trumbull?” the shorter of the girls asked.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Tracy and this is my friend Karen.” Tracy was slender with short dark hair. She pointed to the taller girl. “Karen and me, we’re here for the summer and need a place to stay?”

  “Oh?” said Victoria.

  Tracy shifted her feet uneasily. “We stopped at the police station.” She glanced up at Karen. “And a woman, like, fixing their computer, told us you sometimes rent rooms?”

  “Come in.” Victoria opened the door wider. The clouds had begun to fill the sky to the northwest. A stiff wind tossed the tips of the cedars in the pasture and flipped the leaves on the Norway maple. “Looks as though you got here just in time.”

  As she spoke, lightning flashed, followed by a rumble of thunder. The girls stood uncertainly inside the door.

  “Have a seat,” Victoria suggested, indicating the gray-painted kitchen chairs.

  They took off their backpacks and set them on the floor, then perched, as though ready to take flight.

  Victoria seated herself at the kitchen table across from them. “Are you vacationing?”

  “We’re working at the Harborlights Motel?” said Tracy.

  Karen nodded. “Waiting tables.” Karen had great quantities of curly blond hair, disheveled in a way that Victoria, who was not usually critical of styles, wanted to brush into some kind of order. “We were staying in Chilmark, but …” Karen ran a hand through the mop of hair. She glanced quickly at Tracy.