Free Deadly Nightshade by Cynthia Riggs Page A

Noreen and then at Elizabeth.
    “Christ!” Noreen sat up straight in her chair. “You're making that up.”
    Domingo shook his head. “His name means 'dead.'”
    “Where do you get this stuff?” Elizabeth said.
    “He's full of it.” Noreen turned to Elizabeth. “What did Dojan want?”
    “He told us a sheik was going to bring two huge boats into the harbor tonight.” Elizabeth kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the couch.
    “He does that a couple of times a season,” Domingo said.
    “It's the first time I've seen him.” Elizabeth yawned again.
    “Why didn't you warn her, Domingo?” Noreen said. “He'd frighten anyone, sneaking up to the window at midnight.”
    “I assumed they had him locked up somewhere,” Domingo said. “That nice jail in Edgartown. Country club.”
    “Cut out that shit, Domingo,” Noreen said. “You're not funny.” She turned to Victoria. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Trumbull.”
    “A couple of months ago, before you came on board, he got into an altercation with a drunk,” Domingo continued.
    Elizabeth waved her hand to direct his cigarette smoke away from her face. Domingo opened the window.
    “When I arrived at the scene, this drunk was lying on the ground. Dojan was hitting him over the head with what appeared to be a leg.”
    Noreen got up. “I've heard this before. Want some coffee?”
    “Yes.” Elizabeth covered another yawn.
    “Then what happened?” Victoria said.
    “There was blood all over the place,” Domingo continued. “I thought Dojan had torn the guy's leg off.” He looked at Victoria, who was watching, enthralled. “He had.”
    Victoria sat forward in her chair.
    “It was an artificial leg,” Domingo added, and sat back with a smirk.
    “That's sick,” Elizabeth said.
    “It's the truth,” Domingo said.
    “Domingo, you're full of it,” Noreen said.
    “Come to think of it, Dojan drives a light Ford van.”
    “Talk about nightmares!” Elizabeth said. “Would you rather be tailed by Meatloaf or by some crazed Wampanoag named Dead.”
    “You said you found something.” Domingo turned to Victoria. “What did you find?” He leaned forward again, bright eyes fixed on her.
    “We stopped by the East Chop dock on the way to have lunch at the lighthouse.”
    “You went to the crime scene. You couldn't help yourself. Go on.”
    “Let her tell her story her own way, Domingo,” Noreen said.
    Domingo reached for his pack of cigarettes and lighted one.
    “Why don't you just light it from the old butt?” Elizabeth said. “Save lighter fluid.” She waved the smoke away.
    “We walked along the beach toward the spit that goes out to the osprey pole,” Victoria said.
    “Go on.” Domingo watched Victoria.
    “Someone had pulled a boat above the high-tide mark.”
    “A lot of people do that.” Domingo watched Victoria's face.
    “Let her talk, Domingo,” Noreen said.
    Elizabeth held the mug in both hands, sipped her coffee, and looked at her grandmother over the rim.
    “Not many people,” Victoria said. “It's a kind of backwater. Flotsam washes up on the beach there, plastic oil containers, sunblock bottles, eelgrass. I would think boats would prefer to land on the beach near the dock, where it's cleaner. No one would want to swim there.”
    Domingo's expression never changed. “Do I understand you to say, sweetheart, you think that a boat landing several hundred feet north of the dock has something to do with the killing?”
    “For God's sake, Domingo,” Noreen said. “Shut up.”
    “Footprints led from the keel mark to a sort of path....”
    “A path?” Domingo said.
    “Not exactly a path, a trodden-down place at the top of the bank, where the rosebushes and bayberry were disturbed, and the grass was crushed down.”
    “Go on.” Domingo took another drag on his cigarette.
    “I sent Elizabeth along the path—the stepped-on place—to look for anything she could find that might seem unusual.”
    “Go on,” he said. “She found