Paperwhite Narcissus (12 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

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“Haven’t seen pilot crackers for a while,” said Botts. “We used to call them chowder crackers.”
“Cronig’s didn’t stock pilot crackers for a few months, but there was such a furor from Islanders, we can now buy them again.”
Botts waited until she’d poured tea. “Did you learn anything from Dwyer?”
“Nothing. He was evasive. I’m convinced he wrote those obituaries. Why, though, I can’t imagine.”
“And yet you don’t think he’s the killer?”
Victoria shook her head. “He’s not the type.”
“We all are, under the right circumstances.”
Victoria broke the large cracker into small pieces and dropped them into her soup. “Did you know that Lynn is Tom’s wife’s daughter from a previous marriage?”
Botts looked up from his tea. “I had no idea his wife had been married before. Was her first husband from here?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
Botts checked his watch. “Katie’s late.”
“Did you talk to her this morning?”
“She was going to pick up the girls at the boat and bring them directly here. They have an interview with Colley this afternoon.”
“I hope I did the right thing by taking them to the
Enquirer.
The
Grackle
could make better use of them.”
“No, Victoria. Absolutely not. I’ve got more staff than I want.”
“It’s an idea.” She glanced out of the window at the sound of a car in the drive.
Katie parked her sports car next to Botts’s pickup and the three young women came into the house together.
“Good morning,” Victoria greeted them. “Mugs are in the cupboard near the sink and the tea is brewed.”
“It’s afternoon,” said Botts.
The two girls sat next to each other at the table.
“Are you finished with your lunch, Mrs. Trumbull?” Katie asked and when Victoria nodded, she took the tray into the kitchen and returned with mugs of tea. Both girls wrapped their hands around their mugs and gazed down silently at the table.
“Do you graduate this year, Tiffany? You are Tiffany, aren’t you?” Victoria nodded to the blonde.
“No, ma’am. I’m Wendy. She’s Tiffany,” indicating the dark-haired girl. “We’ll be seniors in September.”
“We were wondering, Tiffany and me, how you ever found us?” Wendy asked.
“The dock attendants gave me your telephone numbers.”
Wendy giggled. “They’re cute.”
Victoria smiled. “They are. I’m sorry they’re not closer to my age.”
The girls looked at each other and both giggled.
Katie, sitting at the end of the table, had her notebook out.
Botts said, “You two may have been the last people to see Mr. Fieldstone alive. You heard about his death, didn’t you?”
“That was gruesome,” said Tiffany. “He seemed, like, you know, a nice man.”
“We heard a boat ran over him,” said Wendy.
“Really horrible,” said Tiffany, and shook her head.
“Before he dropped you off at the Hyannis dock, did Mr. Fieldstone say where he planned to go?” Victoria asked.
Tiffany looked up from her tea. “He was, like, meeting someone on Nantucket.”
“Could you tell from anything Mr. Fieldstone said whether or not the friend had a boat of his own?” Botts asked.
“I don’t know. I mean, Mr. Fieldstone didn’t mention anything about another boat. When we told him thank you, he said it wasn’t out of his way. He was meeting someone on Nantucket.”
“His boat was awesome,” said Wendy. “He let us look around the cabin downstairs.”
“Did anyone call him on his radio when you were on board?” Botts asked.
The girls looked at each other. “No,” Tiffany said. “He turned on the weather channel and we, like, listened to that. It was supposed to be nice, the radio said. Then he turned to Channel sixteen, the emergency channel, and we listened to the Coast Guard talking to someone whose engine had quit.”
“They ran out of gas,” said Wendy.
“Did Mr. Fieldstone have a cell phone?” Victoria asked. “Did he make any calls, or did anyone call him while you were on board?”
“He did, didn’t he?” Wendy said, turning to Tiffany.
“Someone called, but we couldn’t tell who it was. He said something about fishing. It might have been his wife. I wasn’t really listening, you know?”
Victoria looked from one girl to the other. “Did he tell the person on the phone where he was going?”
Wendy piped up. “He said fish were running in Muskegut Channel.”
“From what he said, did it sound as though the person Fieldstone was meeting lived on Nantucket?” Botts asked.
Wendy shook her head. “I wasn’t really listening. It was like he was just telling her he was going fishing. I’m not sure it was a ‘her’ on the phone. Could of been a guy, I guess. He didn’t mention Nantucket on the phone.”
“Did he talk to anyone on the dock when he let you off?” Victoria asked.
“When we tied up in Hyannis, they seemed to know him,”
said Tiffany. “Said ‘hi’ and ‘how you doing’ and ‘what brings you here.’ That kind of stuff.”
“Did any of them ask where he was going?”
“I guess. Like, ‘Where you going?’ and he said, ‘Cruising around Nantucket,’ and they all laughed. That was about it. Almost what he said to us.” Tiffany looked around. “Does anyone have the time? We’re supposed to meet Mr. Jameson at two o’clock.”
Katie looked at her watch. “It’s twenty of now.”
“Mr. Botts and I are going that way,” said Victoria. “We can give you a ride.”
“So we’re going that way, eh?” said Botts, when the girls were out of hearing.
“I need to report to Colley about my progress on the obituary writer.”
“Are you telling him that Tom Dwyer wrote the obits?”
“Of course not,” said Victoria.
Katie drove straight to Edgartown after her meeting with Victoria, William Botts, and the two girls from Hyannis Academy. She had met Ed Prada twice over beers at the Waterfront Pub since the day Fieldstone’s half-body had washed up on Wasque, and she was meeting him again today for a late lunch. She’d felt guilty for not offering to drive Wendy and Tiffany to the
Enquirer
for their second interview, since she’d be going within a block of the paper, but then Victoria and William Botts had volunteered.
Ed, looking both handsome and non-Island in his summer uniform, was sitting at a table by the window when Katie arrived at the pub. She made her way through the late-lunch crowd and greeted him in her husky voice.
Ed stood up and held a chair for her. “Matt Pease may stop by to show you some photos.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better order right away. I have only a half-hour.”
Katie glanced at the menu and set it aside. “Tuna salad sandwich and iced tea, I guess. I wonder what Matt’s photos are of?”
“He didn’t say. I assume they have something to do with Colley.”
“He’s more upset with Colley than I am, and I’m pretty angry. Matt’s been with the paper longer than Colley has.”
“Here he is now.” Ed signaled to Matt, who was standing in the doorway, looking around. He made his way to their table, carrying a large manila envelope.
“Pull up a chair,” said Ed. “How about lunch?”
“I’ve already eaten, but I could use a cup of coffee.” He laid the envelope on the table.
The waitress came to their table and smiled when she saw Matt. “I’ve been meaning to call you, Matt. Jared and I are getting married. We want you to be our photographer.”
“Congratulations,” said Katie. “When?”
“In September.”
“I’d be delighted.” Matt took a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her. “Give me a call when you get off work.”
“Thanks, Matt.” She noted down their orders and left.
“Looks like you don’t need to worry about your career,” Ed said.
Katie indicated the envelope. “Are those the photos Colley wants so badly? The ones taken at the funeral?”
“I’ve got several photos of his wife and Audrey before and after the funeral.” Matt opened the envelope, removed a sheaf of eight-by-ten glossy prints, and spread them out on the table. “Here the two women are, scowling at each other, but that’s hardly a big deal. Everybody on the Island knows Calpurnia and Audrey’s husband had a thing going.” Matt shuffled the photos, putting them in some kind of order. “I don’t know why Colley is so eager to get the pictures. He wants the negatives, too.”
“Has he seen the prints?” Ed asked.
“Not these. I gave him—rather, I sold him—a shot of him and Audrey after the funeral where Colley’s looking suitably sympathetic and Audrey seems to be grieving.” He slid the photo out from the stack. “And I sold him a real arty photo of the crowd in front of the church, umbrellas adding to the atmosphere of gloom. Front-page news photos, both of them.”
In a short time, the waitress returned with sandwiches and Matt’s coffee. “I know you’re in a hurry, Ed. I’ll take your money now, if you want.”
“Thanks.” Ed handed her a bill.
Katie stirred sugar into her iced tea. “Why did you want me to see the pictures? I was there, as you know, and heard what
Audrey said about Calpurnia, right to her face. No love lost between them.”
“Those weren’t the photos that I wanted to show you.” Matt shuffled the prints. “I have others from the beginning of the roll of film.” He slid several glossy prints in front of Katie, avoiding her tuna sandwich. “The funeral photos were at the end of the roll. I’d taken a couple of dozen shots around town for about a week before. Local color. Merchants getting ready for summer, that sort of thing.” He slipped the funeral prints back into the envelope and spread the others out on the table. “I wanted to get your reaction to these, this one in particular.”
Katie wiped her hands on her napkin and picked up a photo of the Edgartown harbor. In the background, she could see the Chappaquiddick shoreline. Several boats were in the channel—the ferry, two small sailboats, an inflatable dinghy with a man at the tiller, and an old runabout. Sunlight glinted off the varnished brightwork of the runabout. Two people were in the boat, one at the helm, the other reaching for something in the stern.
Katie glanced up. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”
Matt pointed at the runabout with his pen. “I’m interested in antique wooden Chris-Crafts, so I enlarged this portion of the photo. I hadn’t seen this one around the harbor before. It dates from around nineteen-thirty, and only about five hundred of this model were built.” He smoothed the photo. “It could make better than thirty miles an hour. Probably still can.” He sighed. “Someone takes good care of her.” He moved the harbor photo to one side and slid out the enlargement of the boat. “Notice anything?” he asked.
Ed leaned over to examine the photo.
“Looks like a woman at the controls,” he said.
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Katie.
“The passenger seems to be a woman, too,” Ed said.
Matt took a small hand lens out of his shirt pocket. “Look
closely at the woman at the wheel.” He handed the magnifying lens to Katie.
The images of the two people in the grainy enlargement were fuzzy. The woman at the controls was wearing sunglasses and a dark anorak with the hood pulled over her hair. The ends of a scarf she had tied around the neck of the anorak had blown in front of her face, partly obscuring her mouth and chin.
“It’s hard to tell who she is.” Katie looked up at Matt. “She looks a little bit like Audrey Fieldstone.”
“Look at the other woman,” said Matt.
The other woman was even more difficult to make out. She was reaching into the backseat of the boat. Her dark hair was blowing in front of her face.
“Calpurnia wears her hair something like that,” said Katie. “But there’s no way it can be Audrey and Calpurnia. When did you take the picture?”
“Early afternoon, about five days before the funeral.”
Ed, eating quickly, was halfway through his sandwich. “Had Fieldstone’s body been found by then?”
Matt shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“His body—half of his body—washed up on Friday, almost two weeks ago,” said Katie. “I covered the story.”
“The boat belongs to Audrey Fieldstone. She keeps it in Lagoon Pond, at Maciel Marine.”
“Is that Calpurnia with her?”
“Here’s another photo taken the day before the funeral.” Matt shuffled the prints again and picked out one taken on Main Street not far from the Whaling Church. In the picture were two women, one with dark hair walking away from the photographer, her back to the camera. The other was clearly Audrey, frowning, a hand partially raised as if to ward off something. She was wearing a dark anorak.
Katie took a deep breath. “Audrey and Calpurnia.”
“What do you make of that?” Matt asked. “Four or five days before the funeral they’re in Audrey’s boat. They must have
been on speaking terms. Was Fieldstone already dead? And did they know?” He shuffled the photos back to the one of Audrey with her hand raised. “Yet look at this. Audrey is not exactly friendly, but she’s acknowledging Calpurnia. At the funeral she’s really hostile.”
Ed looked at his watch and wadded up his napkin. “I hate to leave, but I have to get back to the station house. I’ll give you a call, Katie.”
After Ed left, Katie asked Matt, “What’s going on?”
“I don’t have a clue. They have every reason to hate each other. But why are they together in Audrey’s boat?”
“Is it possible that Audrey didn’t know about her husband and Calpurnia? And found out before the funeral?”
Matt shook his head. “I doubt it. Everybody on the Island knew about the affair. And everybody knew how the two women felt about each other.”
“Sometimes wives can be in deep denial.”
“I don’t know,” said Matt. “Doesn’t make sense, their going out in that boat together.”
“You’ve got to show these photos to Victoria Trumbull. If anyone can make sense out of them, she can.”
 
“I’ll be at the historical society museum, Victoria.” Botts said as he dropped Victoria and the two girls off at the
Enquirer
for their interview with Colley. Victoria went into the newspaper office with them.
They stopped at the reception desk and Victoria introduced the girls to Faith. “These two young ladies are here for their appointment with Colley.”
Faith looked at her calendar. “Mr. Jameson must have forgotten. He’s with his attorney right now.”
Victoria’s face flushed. “The girls have come from off Island at Colley’s request. They made a special trip.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Trumbull.” Faith rose out of her seat. “I don’t know what to say. Would you care to wait?”
Victoria tapped her fingers on the reception desk. “When do you expect him back?”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Tiffany. “We don’t, like, want to be a bother.”
“He probably won’t be more than an hour,” Faith said.
Victoria turned to Tiffany. “Mr. Jameson made an appointment with you. You set aside your entire day to meet with him for a half-hour. It’s not much to ask of him that he remember the appointment that
he
made.”
Tiffany and Wendy looked at each other. “Really, Mrs. Trumbull. We can come back another day,” said Tiffany.
Victoria turned to Faith. “Is Alfred Fox his lawyer?”
“Yes. At Pease’s Point Way.”
“I know where it is. Come along, girls,” said Victoria. “That’s only two blocks from here.”
“Perhaps I’d better call Mr. Fox’s office?” Faith said. “To let him know you’re on your way?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Victoria said, and marched out, the two girls trailing after her.
 
Al Fox had hung his toupee on the coat rack by the door, where it looked like a dead raccoon. It was a fine hairpiece, but it itched, and he preferred to wear it only occasionally.
He was sitting behind his kidney-shaped desk, made from a slice of maple burl. The sun reflected off his head and his polished desk and into Colley’s eyes. Colley moved his chair to one side, thinking about Victoria as he did.
“Isn’t there some way I can get at the principal of the trust fund?” he asked Al Fox.
Al fiddled with his letter opener, a dagger he’d picked up in Majorca. “Your father tied that trust fund up every which way. He made sure you would receive a regular allowance, but the principal will go, upon your death, half divided among your issue, half to the newspaper trust, and an allowance to your surviving wife.”
Colley got up from the chair, walked over toward the wall and studied the framed
New Yorker
cartoons of lawyers. “There are no children.”
“If it is proven that there is no issue, your surviving wife will have the use of one half of the fund until her death, at which time the money goes to the newspaper.”
“Can’t I borrow against the fund?” Colley stopped at the framed embroidered quotation that was now taking up most of the space on the end table beside the couch.
“No way.”
“‘Let’s kill all the lawyers,”’ Colley read.
Al shrugged. “Right or wrong, your father didn’t want you to have control of that trust fund. He and his Boston lawyers worked out the wording. I didn’t.”
Colley’s face was getting pink. “Part of my problem is that you’re representing a bunch of my ex-wives, and you and they are squeezing me dry.”
“Come now, that’s not fair,” said Al, running his hand over his smooth head. “I represented only two of the four, and one of those is dead now. You made your own deal with college sweetheart number one, I didn’t. Granted, number two took you to the cleaners …”
“With your help.”
“Shall we say she stripped you clean? Ha, ha!” said Al, with no trace of mirth.
Colley didn’t laugh.
“She was my client. You weren’t. Ecdysiast. Ha, ha!” Al took off his glasses and wiped them on a tissue. “Number three—where is she, by the way?”
“She remarried.”
“Number three didn’t want a penny from you—‘dirty money,’ according to her. I tried to convince her she was entitled to a sizable alimony.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Colley.
“Not at all. Number four’s checks go to Majorca.”
“Understand you’re hand delivering my checks to her.”
“I’d say you got off easy,” Al said, ignoring the remark. He played with the letter opener, twisting it around and around in his hands. “You should stop shedding wives, Colley. You can’t afford the luxury.”
“The fact remains,” said Colley, seating himself again, “that trust fund has better than eight million dollars in it, and all it’s doing is growing.”

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