Free Indian Pipes by Cynthia Riggs Page A

holding the arms of her chair.
    “Elizabeth,” she called to her granddaughter, who was putting books away in the living room.
    “Yes, Gram?”
    “I know where Jube Burkhardt’s car is.”
    Elizabeth set the books she was holding onto the coffee table. “Where?”
    “At the old blacksmith shop. Tiasquam Repairs. There’s that area in back where people leave cars to be worked on, or summer people store them until they return from vacation.”
    “But why would Burkhardt leave his car there?”
    “I imagine the killer told Jube he needed to leave his own car for some work, an oil change, something simple like that. He’d have said, ‘No point in taking two cars all the way to Aquinnah, besides my car needs some work.’ After he killed Jube, he drove Jube’s car to the lot and picked up his own.”
    “His or her,” Elizabeth said. “Okay, Gram, let’s go. Do you know what kind of car Burkhardt drove?”
    Victoria had already started out the door. “He drove a red Volvo 1985.” She gathered up her walking stick from the entry, marched down the steps ahead of Elizabeth, and got into the car.
    They drove past the police station and the millpond, and slowed on Brandy Brow. Joe and the usual gang were sitting on the porch of Alley’s store. Taffy barked from the driver’s seat of Joe’s truck as they passed. Sarah waved.
    “Don’t those guys ever work?” asked Elizabeth.
    Victoria looked at her watch. “It’s after five.”
    They turned in at the gas station and went down a bumpy dirt road to the garage, which was closed for the day. Behind the garage, a field of stored cars waited for owners to claim them. “There must be two dozen red Volvos here,” Elizabeth said in dismay. “We’ll never be able to single his car out, even if it is here.”
    “We can eliminate any that have grass growing up around their tires. Also, any that have out-of-state license plates.”
    After they had paced up and down the weedy aisles between cars, Elizabeth said, “We’re down to three red Volvos.”
    “This one seems promising,” Victoria said. “Cardboard cartons, a couple of milk crates full of papers, and a couple of bags full of soda cans.” She moved to another car. “This one has a soccer ball, a child’s soccer shirt, candy wrappers, a copy of
Mad Magazine,
a doll.” Victoria crossed it off her list.
    “Not this one either,” Elizabeth said.
    Victoria cupped her hands against the windshield to look in. She set in motion a plastic grass-skirted hula dancer stuck to the dashboard with a suction cup. Next to the dancer were wadded-up tissues with lipstick smears.
    “Back to the first of the three.” Victoria strode through the long grass to the car, opened the passenger door, and sat on the stained and worn seat.
    “Should we be doing this?” Elizabeth looked around behind them, as if she expected someone to stop them.
    Victoria opened the glove compartment. “Of course we should.” She lifted out a handful of papers, paper napkins, plastic ketchup containers, and white plastic spoons. She sorted through them and put everything back except an envelope from the Vineyard Insurance Agency. She opened the envelope and examined the policy. “It’s made out to Jubal M. Burkhardt.”
    “Can we leave now?” Elizabeth asked.
    Victoria nodded. “We’ll stop at the police station and report to Casey.”
     
    Casey was coming down the steps as they parked in front of the station. She walked over to the passenger side, and Victoria rolled down the window.
    “Good job, Deputy,” Casey said after Victoria told her about finding Jube’s car. “I’ll notify his nieces and the Aquinnah police.”
    Elizabeth started to say something, but Victoria put her hand on her granddaughter’s knees. Elizabeth looked at her, surprised. Victoria had arranged her face into a warning, and Elizabeth stopped in midsentence.
    As they pulled away from the police station, Elizabeth said, “Why did you stop me, Gram? I wanted