Death and Honesty by Cynthia Riggs Page A

Darcy.” Neither offered to shake hands. The pilot waited for Reverend True to settle himself with his laptop, then went around the limo and sat beside him.
    “Do you wish to go directly to Miss Sampson’s, sir?” Darcy asked, looking into the rearview mirror.
    “Fine.” The reverend busied himself with his laptop.

    Darcy headed away from the airport. The pilot had not said a word. In the rearview mirror Darcy saw him prop his elbow on the door frame and stare at the scenery, acre upon acre of scrub oak and dead red pine. They dipped smoothly into one of the glacial swales and up the other side.
    When Darcy had first met Victoria Trumbull, she’d described the dips in the road as “thank-you-ma’ams.” A swaying horsedrawn wagon would toss a couple together, if they positioned themselves just right, she’d said. He thought of the way she savored the limousine’s luxury, stretching out her still fine long legs and leaning back into the soft leather. Darcy speculated, for the briefest of moments, on what might have happened if he’d been born fifty years earlier and then had met Victoria Trumbull.
    They came to the outskirts of the village and passed the huge maple trees that surrounded Victoria’s house. No one had said anything. Reverend True was still working on his computer. Darcy checked the mirror and saw his face bathed in a bluish light from the screen. He could see the pilot, too, watching him with a slight smile.
    On that last job the pilot’s name had been Frank Morris. What was Morris doing here on Martha’s Vineyard? Clearly, he wasn’t about to acknowledge that he knew Darcy. For that matter, Darcy didn’t care to acknowledge that he knew Frank Morris, either. Or Cappy Jessup, since that seemed to be his name now.
    They passed the police station on the right and Darcy braked at the hand-lettered sign by the mill pond that read “Slow! Turtle Crossing.” Two swans sailed on the black surface of the pond.
    Darcy knew a few things about the man called Frank Morris. Or Cappy Jessup. He had a helicopter license, he could speak Russian, German, and Italian fluently, and he had been trained to kill.
    They turned right at Brandy Brow toward the cemetery, and Darcy tried to puzzle out why Frank Morris was here. To protect someone? Or to kill someone? Who?
    Henry or Delilah? Perhaps he, Darcy, was Frank Morris’s target. Kill or protect? For that matter, he had his own assignment. Perhaps he and Frank Morris had been hired by the same person. Was Frank Morris there to clean up after removing him from the action?

    They skirted the cemetery at Deadman’s Curve and passed Whiting’s fields, where a murder of crows scavenged for carrion. After the arboretum they crossed the brook. Skunk cabbage was unfurling its bright green leaves. At the split oak, they turned left.
    Reverend True tapped on the glass partition. Darcy lowered it. “Take me to Up Island Cronig’s, Darcy I’d better pick up some flowers for the little woman.”
    Darcy slowed at a wide entrance on the right where there was a large green mailbox, and made a U-turn.
    Now that Reverend True had broken the silence, he became garrulous. “I’d take her orchids, but there are plenty of those at the house. My hobby, you know.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Darcy.
    “I suppose I should look for something just the opposite, like daisies.”
    “Very appropriate, sir.”
    “Quite a gal, Delilah.”
    Darcy said nothing.
    Reverend True settled back into the seat. “Hasn’t spoken to me for three weeks. Mad at me, you know?”
    “I didn’t know that, sir.”
    “Hysterical over that alto. Cute little piece. Perfectly innocent. Can’t say I blame the little woman. Redhead, you know?”
    “Yes, sir.” They’d reached the Up Island Cronig’s turnoff. Darcy parked. “Would you like me to get the flowers for you, sir?”
    “Good man.” Reverend True shifted onto one hip, reached for his wallet, and extracted two hundred-dollar bills.