Indian Pipes by Cynthia Riggs

the chief thoughtfully. “And Mr. Burkhardt was not a careless man.”
    “He wasn’t pushed off the cliffs.” Dojan turned his eyes on the chief.
    The chief looked away from Dojan and gazed at the thin line of the Elizabeth Islands on the horizon. “You don’t think someone pushed him from here?”
    “Would he go near the edge of the cliff with someone he didn’t trust?” Dojan shook his head.
    “No. He wouldn’t.”
    “A killer would be foolish to kill here. A fall is almost certain death. But a fall would not guarantee death.”
    “Let’s go back to the tribal building so we can talk.”
    Dojan shook his head again. “I am going down to the beach at the foot of the cliffs. He was killed there.” Below them, lacy scallops of foam washed high onto the shore, melted into the sand, and the next set of breakers washed up another scalloped line. “He was killed on the beach.”
     
    While Dojan was conferring with Chief Hawkbill, Casey and Victoria were sitting in the Bronco, which was parked in front of the West Tisbury police station.
    “Aquinnah’s not my territory.” Casey glowered at Victoria’s eagle-beak profile set in a mass of stubborn wrinkles. “The Aquinnah police chief stopped by Hiram’s place. Doors unlocked, of course. This Island is a cop’s nightmare. Anyway, he went inside, nothing seemed wrong. Nothing seemed out of place. The cat wasn’t upset; it has a big bowl of cat chow and plenty of water.”
    “Was his van there?” Victoria asked. Her blue cap was perched on her head.
    “No, which doesn’t mean anything, one way or the other,” Casey said. “He’s down-Island, shopping. Or he’s visiting a buddy in Vineyard Haven. Or he’s gone to the bookstore in Edgartown. Maybe he’s at Bert’s getting a haircut. He’s gone to the liquor store in Oak Bluffs.”
    “He doesn’t drink.”
    “I can’t do it, Victoria. If Hiram lived in West Tisbury, I could bend a rule or two, but I’m not taking you to Aquinnah, and that’s final.”
    “All right.” Victoria reached into the backseat of the Bronco for her stick. She opened the passenger door and slid off the seat onto the oyster-shell paving. Her back was rail-straight. She took off her cap and thrust it into her cloth bag, which she slid partway up her arm.
    “Where are you going, Victoria? I’ll drive you home.” Casey leaned out the window of the Bronco.
    “No thank you. I’m taking myself to Gay Head or Aquinnah or whatever they’re calling it now.” She marched around the back of the Bronco, over the oyster shells, past the ducks that had settled in the shade of the police vehicle, stopped at the side of the road, and stuck out her thumb.
    Casey dropped her head on her arms. Her coppery hair fell over the steering wheel. “When is she going to start acting her age?” she muttered. She wrenched open the driver’s door and got out in time to see a green pickup truck pull off the road with a squeal of brakes. The driver got out, took off his cap to Victoria, who was smiling up at him. He reached into the back of the truck and lifted out a black milk crate, helped Victoria step up onto the crate and into the passenger seat, and drove off in a cloud of dust.
    “Lord,” said Casey, as the truck geared up and sped past the millpond. “I ought to give him a speeding ticket just because.”
     
    “You sure you don’t want me to wait, Mrs. Trumbull?” The driver set down the milk crate and helped Victoria out. He had stopped by the side of the road where tour buses parked for visitors to view the cliffs.
    “I’ll be fine. Thank you for the ride, Ira. Give my regards to your father.”
    It had been Asa Bodman’s son Ira who had picked up Victoria by the police station. He was going as far as Seven Gates, he told her, but when she said she wanted to go to Gay Head, he had detoured the thirteen miles to take her there.
    Ira moved off slowly, and Victoria watched him drive around the circle to where it rejoined the