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Executive Times |
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2006 Book Reviews |
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Indian
Pipes by Cynthia Riggs |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Marple Mystery
readers often wail that Agatha Christie didn’t
write enough novels featuring amateur sleuth Miss Marple.
Many of us search for a wonderful protagonist up to the wit and wisdom of
that classic character. My introduction to one American version of Miss Marple came when I read the sixth As the tribal chairman
walked past the closed door of Peter’s office that same afternoon, she heard
his voice raised at the visitor. She couldn’t make
out what the visitor said back, his voice was too low, but she could hear
Peter distinctly. “That butterfly,” she
heard Peter say, “that butterfly was supposed to stop any consideration of
the property.” She stood in front of
Peter’s closed door, wondering whether she should interrupt this or listen.
Or move on and let them talk in private. She had seen the man
come in, a big heavy bald man with a black beard. Peter had shut his door
behind the man, and the two had been closeted for more than an hour. If it is tribal
business, Patience thought, Peter should not be transacting it without me,
the tribal chairman. She stood for a moment longer, undecided. “All the more reason
to scratch that last property from consideration,” Peter said. Patience made her
decision. She knocked on the door and opened it without being invited in. The
bald man turned his head, and Peter, whose pale face was unusually flushed,
stopped in what was obviously midsentence. “I beg your pardon,”
Patience said with a polite smile. “I would like to see you in my office when
you’re free, Peter.” She turned to the visitor, who stood up, a great tall
hulk of a man, and held out her hand. “I’m Patience VanDyke, Peter’s boss. And you are?” The visitor bowed
slightly. “Michael Jandrowicz at your service.” His
voice was gruff. “Dr. Jandrowicz,” Peter said. “He’s a
professor at “Delighted,”
Patience said politely. Bugs took her hand in his great paw. “Are you here on
tribal business, Dr. Jandrowicz?” Before
Bugs could answer, Peter said, “He’s here to see me, Patience.” “On tribal
business?” Patience said again. “Regarding
the casino sites. Yes,” Bugs said in his raspy voice. “Then I
will join you.” Patience moved one of Peter’s chairs to the side of his desk,
where she could establish her right to authority. “Please
sit,” she said to Bugs. “Would you care to fill me in, Peter? Or shall I ask
Dr. Jandrowicz.” “This is
none of your business, Patience.” Peter had to turn to look at her. “I think
it is my business.” Patience smiled and turned to Bugs. “You undoubtedly have
heard that the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head, Aquinnah,
is exploring the possibility of building a casino here on tribal lands.” Bugs
nodded. “It is
important that discussions not be carried on outside the tribe. I’m sure you
can understand why.” Peter
swiveled in his chair suddenly and looked out the window. An antique Indian
Chief Blackhawk motorcycle was next to Chief Hawkbill’s
Cadillac in the parking lot. “Why don’t
you tell me about it, Dr. Jandrowicz. I’m sure Peter would prefer that you do the talking.”
Patience crossed one leg over the other and smoothed her skirt. Peter kept
his back to them. “Jube Burkhardt, a consulting
engineer for the governor’s office, contacted me.” Bugs stopped and looked
questioningly at Patience, who nodded. “I had published an article in a popular
science magazine on the butterflies of Peter
swiveled his chair until he faced them. “We don’t have to go through all this
again.” “I think
we do,” said Patience, and turned back to Bugs. “Go on, please, Dr. Jandrowicz.” “Mr. Burkhardt was quite knowledgeable about butterflies, for
a layman. He asked me questions about endangered species found on the “Winter,
too?” Patience was interested, even though she was not sure where this was
leading. “You don’t mean to say you found butterflies during the cold
months?” “Every
month except January,” Bugs said. Peter
sighed loudly and looked at his watch. Patience
glanced at Peter, then at Bugs. “Why was Mr. Burkhardt
interested in endangered butterflies? I think I can guess, but I’d like to hear
what you have to say, Dr. Jandrowicz.” “He asked
me if we had found any Patience
answered. “Yes, please. I would
like you to continue.” She smoothed her wide skirt over her lap. “Mr. Burkhardt e-mailed me last month to say he had found two
variegated fritillaries on a twenty-five-acre site south of “Enough to
take that property out of consideration as a casino site, I gather,” Patience
said. Peter
stood. “This conversation is going nowhere.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve
got another appointment.” “I think
not,” said Patience. “I suggest you call to cancel your appointment. We’ll
wait, Dr. Jandrowicz and I, while you do so.” She
folded her arms over her ample bosom and Peter sat again. “Quite
definitely,” Bugs said. “Finding an endangered species stops development
until the state makes a survey.” “Did you
follow up on the two butterflies?” “That’s
one reason I’m here. Burkhardt’s alleged finding of
the two fritillaries happened to coincide with a motorcycle rally here on the
“And you met with Mr. Burkhardt?” Patience asked. “He escorted me to the
location and showed me two specimens of fritillaries on the ground, dead,
obviously preserved, and obviously from someone’s collection.” “And what did you do?”
Patience leaned forward. “I told him they were
planted specimens, and left.” “Did Mr. Burkhardt tell you who had hired him to search that particular
site?” “He said nothing to
me.” Patience turned to
Peter, who was doodling circles within circles on his desk calendar. “Did Mr.
Burkhardt come to you, Peter, before that last
tribal meeting?” Peter looked up
defiantly. “Yes. He said he had found an endangered species on the property
that seemed to be the only suitable site for the casino, and suggested we
talk about it. We never got a chance to.” “Had he told you what
kind of endangered animal or plant he’d found?” Patience asked. “Butterflies,” Peter
answered sullenly. “Mr. Burkhardt knew you were lobbying for a floating casino,
didn’t he?” Peter nodded. “Had Mr. Burkhardt proposed that money change hands if he was able
to hold up or stop consideration of a site on tribal lands?” Patience asked. “I can’t answer that,”
Peter said. “Can’t or won’t?” Bugs answered for him.
“Mr. Burkhardt offered me a considerable sum of
money, enough to fund a survey of the area, to verify that he had found the
two specimens on the site. I refused.” Patience raised her
eyebrows and looked from Peter to Bugs. “Where did Mr. Burkhardt
get enough money to throw around in such a way?” Peter turned and
stared out at the parking lot and the Indian parked by the white Cadillac. A
ray of sunlight reflected off the Indian’s bright pipes and shone on Peter’s
high cheekbones. “It’s a beautiful
bike,” Peter said. “Other companies build
motorcycles,” Bugs quoted. “We manufacture dreams.’ That was the Indian Motocycle Company’s motto.” Late afternoon sun
glistened in the imperfections and bubbles of the old glass panes of the west
windows. Dust motes danced and sparkled in a beam of light that angled across
the floor, spotlighting a worn place in the carpet. At her insistence, Dojan had taken “You’ve got to stay
away for a couple of nights, at least.” Howland thrust his hands into his
pockets. “You’re being
ridiculous. The computer isn’t here—where is it, by the way?” “Locked in the back of
my car with a blanket over it.” “There’s a killer
loose, Victoria. We don’t know who it is or why Burkhardt
and Hiram were killed. Until we have some answers, you’re not safe.” “That’s absurd.” The
wrinkles of “Listen to me.”
Howland’s eyes glittered. “The state police are on the case. They came in
late and have to catch up. They haven’t identified the body from the fire
yet.” “It was Hiram.” “You and I believe it
was Hiram, but the police have to go through procedures. In the meantime—” “ “I will not leave my
house, and that’s that.” Dojan slipped past Howland
and padded through the kitchen. “I don’t know where
the hell Linda is, and I don’t care,” Howland snapped. “Would you like a
glass of sherry?” “No, thank you.”
Howland’s cheekbones had a flush of red across them. He marched out of the
dining room into the kitchen and stood by the entry door until Dojan joined him. “I’ll talk to you
outside,” he barked at Dojan. Howland glanced
through the dining room into the front hall, then
turned toward the cookroom. “Where is she?” “She’s out. She has a
dinner date.” “Kee-rist!”
said Howland. A blue car pulled into
the driveway. “Here’s Linda now,” Linda stepped out of
her car, a blue cardigan slung over her shoulders. “Hello, Mrs. Trumbull,”
she called out. She looked curiously at the two tall men who had walked past
her without a word. Linda came into the
house with both arms full of shopping bags and pulled the entry door shut
with her foot. “Who are those strange men?” “Are they still
there?” “I’m sorry, Mrs.
Trumbull. I wasn’t thinking.” She set her purchases down on the captain’s
chair. “I’ll wash my face and wrists.” She returned, scrubbed
free of scent. “She’s camping in a
field not far from here. The police told her where to find me.” The teakettle
whistled, and “I haven’t been on the
“Oh?” Linda spoke into the
cricket-loud silence. “When we were children, we stayed with my uncle every
summer.” The cricket abruptly stopped chirping. “Then, I don’t know, things
changed.” “They do that.
Change.” “You went there this
morning?” Linda asked brightly, switching the subject. “Is the barn still
standing?” “Yes. The fire was
confined to the house. All that’s left is the chimney, charred wood, and
bundles of papers.” “Was that all?” Linda asked, eyes wide over the rim of her cup. “Everything
gone?” “They found mattress
springs, door hinges, the kitchen stove, nonburnables. Also, they found the charred remains
of his computer.” “Was the computer
salvageable?” “I would guess not,
but I don’t know much about computers. The outside was burned and the plastic
fittings on back were melted.” “My uncle wrote me
notes at Christmas. Then when he got the computer, he’d e-mail practically
every week. He used it for everything, correspondence, records, bills.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I suppose
it had a copy of his will on it?” “Did the police take
it?” tea?” “Thank
you. Did….” She
returned to Linda. “No answer. I’ll try later.” “Did
they find anything else at my uncle’s?” Linda asked. “Evidence of arson or
something?” “Oh?
What did they find?” “The
remains of a body.” The
color suddenly washed out of Linda’s face, like a shade pulled down. She
turned ash-gray. “Someone died in the fire? That’s... that’s horrible. That’s
awful.” She stood up, knocked over her teacup, which skidded across the
table, fell to the floor, and broke. She set both hands flat on the table and
hung her head down. Mystery
readers are likely to enjoy Indian
Pipes, and now that I’ve met Victoria Trumbull, I’m more likely to read
another book in this series. Steve Hopkins,
August 25, 2006 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the September
2006 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Indian
Pipes.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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