Free The Bee Balm Murders by Cynthia Riggs

“She’s really not my sort, I’m afraid.”
    “Why so?”
    “Everything seemed artificial, almost temporary. Even Dorothy, herself, was playing a role of some kind.”
    Orion leaned forward slightly. “For example?”
    “Her driver and maid are summer help. The house isn’t her own. I’m sure it’s rented. It’s like an expensive hotel. Yet Dorothy pointed out improvements as though they were hers. She’s had cosmetic surgery on her face. It was all part of the artificiality.”
    “For some reason, I was under the impression you’d known her for some time,” said Orion.
    “Hardly. She was introduced to me at a gallery opening two months ago, and immediately after she was introduced, a more noteworthy celebrity on the other side of the room attracted her attention and she excused herself.”
    Orion’s pleasant expression returned. “Perhaps the luncheon was an attempt to make amends.”
    “The luncheon was because she believes she can use me in some way. How, I don’t know.” Victoria picked up her glass and wiped off the condensation that had formed a wet circle on the end table. “If I were you, Orion, I’d be careful. She’s not at all what she seems to be.”
    *   *   *
    The next morning, Tim parked Dorothy’s Mercedes in the loading zone across from the Mansion House. He crossed Main Street and went into the lobby where Finney Solomon was seated, legs crossed, reading The Wall Street Journal .
    “Mr. Solomon?”
    “Yes?” Finney looked up. “From Ms. Roche?”
    “Yes, sir. I’m parked across the street.”
    Finney arose, folded the paper and tucked it under his arm, picked up his briefcase, then followed Tim out to the car. They drove in silence toward Edgartown. Finney worked his laptop; Tim concentrated on avoiding the early morning summer people who wandered down the middle of Beach Road, talking on their cell phones, figuring, apparently, that since they were on vacation, no harm could come to them.
    Finney looked up briefly from his laptop. “What’s holding things up?”
    “Traffic, sir,” said Tim, who knew better than to honk the horn.
    They drove through Oak Bluffs, quiet this early in the day, and along State Beach, with banks of wild roses on their right and blanketing the low dunes to their left. Beyond the dunes, the waters of Nantucket Sound shaded from pale green to a rich ultramarine far out. Tim looked over to Finney to see if his passenger appreciated this stretch of the Island, but Finney was intent on his laptop. He stopped typing briefly to answer his cell phone, which had rung with a snatch of Pachelbel’s Canon , said a short sentence that Tim couldn’t make out, and snapped the phone shut.
    “Reception is poor,” he said to Tim. “Is this usual?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Tim.
    Finney went back to work without further comment.
    Tim slowed at the outskirts of Edgartown and inched along in a tangle of cars past the Triangle, past the Stop & Shop, and onto Edgartown’s Main Street. Left onto North Water Street and, voilà! Home.
    His home, Tim told himself, at least for the summer. In September, the Island would disappear into the mist like Brigadoon , not to appear again until next summer.
    *   *   *
    Dorothy met Finney at the door. She was older than Finney had expected, probably late fifties. Well-preserved, he told himself. Looking at the beautifully maintained house he decided he liked older women.
    “I’m delighted you could come, Mr. Solomon,” she said. “I see you’ve brought your laptop. We’re going to have a wonderfully productive meeting. You do want coffee, don’t you? Or would you prefer tea?”
    “Coffee, please,” said Finney. “Black.”
    “Just the way I like mine!” exclaimed Dorothy, clasping her hands under her small chin in a charmingly girlish way. “Courtney will bring our coffee to us in the garden. And we can be private there.” She smiled up at him. “And breakfast whenever we want. I’m sure you’re