Free Indian Pipes by Cynthia Riggs

his clothes dripping water.
    “Don’t get your fingerprints on it!” Victoria called.
    Dojan grunted, and held the tool by the leather thong that threaded through the handle.
    “You could do some serious damage with that thing,” Obed said to Victoria.
    “It’s certainly death on weeds,” said Victoria.

C HAPTER 9
     
    Chief Hawkbill had already closed his office door and was heading for the parking lot when Victoria and Dojan arrived.
    Victoria held up the weeding hook by its rawhide thong.
    “What have we here, Victoria Trumbull?” The chief reopened his door, turned on the lights, offered Victoria a chair, and took his own seat behind his desk. Dojan stood, water still trickling from his clothes and hair, and dripping onto the rug.
    “I don’t suppose there’ll be any fingerprints?” Victoria handed him the lethal-looking weapon. The chief took a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and held the tool gingerly.
    “The forensic scientists can do miracles with microscopic evidence,” he said. “Yes, this should go to the police.” He peered over his glasses at Dojan, then at Victoria, whose face was pinkly sunburned. “I will recommend to the Aquinnah police that they keep this as possible evidence.”
    “It’s more than possible evidence,” Victoria said. “There’s no reason for a nice shiny garden tool to end up in Vineyard Sound. I’m sure they can match Jube Burkhardt’s injuries with the curve of the hook.”
    Chief Hawkbill nodded. “Although the police have closed the case, their minds are sometimes open.”
     
    The following afternoon, Victoria was writing at the cookroom table, glancing out the window occasionally. Chief Hawkbill had called earlier to say he had given the weeding hook to the Aquinnah police, and would call when he had information.
    In the meantime, Victoria wondered, where was Hiram? And where was his friend Tad? Had Tad killed Jube and then run off with Hiram? She was sure the stain on Jube’s floor was blood, but whose?A person’s? Hiram’s? It was too fresh for Jube’s. And where was Jube Burkhardt’s car?
    The hazy afternoon light touched the goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace, the tall grass, the lacy yellow fern of the asparagus bed. Everything shimmered with a dusting of soft gold. She could see the old Agricultural Society Hall next to the church, and the new library this side of it.
    Jube Burkhardt had met his killer on the beach below the cliffs. Of that, she was sure. If she had planned to kill someone, she thought, she’d have suggested they first meet someplace convenient to both of them, then go together in one car. In that way, she wouldn’t need to worry about two cars being at the scene of the crime. But where would she leave a car if she were the killer? Somewhere between Jube’s house and Gay Head. Victoria had trouble calling Aquinnah any name other than the one she’d known all her life, Gay Head, named for the brightly colored clay of the headland.
    She continued to stare out at the golden rooftops. The trees had grown, of course. Maley’s Gallery was new, only forty years old or thereabouts, but his house was old. Next to Maley’s were three or four other houses, hidden, now, by trees.
    Where would Jube have met his killer? A place where both would get into one car to drive up to Gay Head. The Ag Hall parking area would be too public, if the killer expected Burkhardt’s car to be left behind. The hiding place would have to be where a car could remain for a week or two weeks or even a month without anyone paying much attention to it. Someplace the police were not likely to check regularly. A place that wouldn’t make Jube Burkhardt suspicious if the killer were to suggest meeting there.
    From where she sat, Victoria could see the roof of the garage across from the Ag Hall. Eighty years ago, the garage had been a blacksmith shop. She used to go there with her grandfather to have their horse Dolly shod.
    The garage.
    She got to her feet,