Paperwhite Narcissus (13 page)

Authors: Cynthia Riggs

BOOK: Paperwhite Narcissus

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“Not these days, it isn’t.”

The intercom on Fox’s desk buzzed and he pressed the switch. His assistant Martha Jo was on the line. “Mr. Fox, Victoria Trumbull and two girls are here to see Mr. Jameson. Shall I send them in?”

Al raised his hairless eyebrows. “What have you done now, Colley?”

At the Waterfront Pub, Matt and Katie got up from the table and Matt left a tip under the napkin holder.

“Ed already tipped her,” Katie said. “You’d better save your money.”

“The waitstaff doesn’t get paid enough. By the way, after I leave here I’m going over to the
Enquirer
to pick up my paycheck. Did you get your severance pay yet?”

“No. I didn’t want to chance running into Colley.”

“Let’s go over there now, together.”

They walked down North Water Street with the harbor on their left, the white-painted captains’ houses on their right, each house angled to face the harbor. On the way to the
Enquirer,
people said hello, nodded, lifted a hand in greeting, stopped to talk.

A stocky man in white painter’s overalls approached them. “Hi Matt, Katie. Nice day.”

“Seth. How you doing?”

“Not bad. You?”

“Great.”

“Hear you’ve got a new job working for the competition, Katie. That right?”

“Kind of,” said Katie.

“Well, good luck.”

In another week, in another couple of days, the streets and brick sidewalks of Edgartown would be filled with strangers wearing slacks and shirts printed with whales and seagulls and bluefish. A week from now, neighbors would be too busy to chat.

“How is the new job?” Matt asked Katie.

“Interesting,” Katie answered cautiously. “Mr. Botts had always dreamed of writing and publishing a nice newsy one-page newsletter in his quiet retirement. Now he’s got a staff of three, he’s embroiled in a murder investigation, and the
Grackle
has gone to four pages. His wife is demanding that he buy an answering machine to handle subscriptions that are pouring in. Mrs. Trumbull keeps adding staff. He’s not at all happy.”

“Does he need photos?”

“Ask Mrs. Trumbull. She’s orchestrating everything.”

They turned the corner onto Main Street.

“And there she is,” said Matt.

Victoria Trumbull and Colley Jameson were striding, side by side, along Main Street. Behind them, looking uncomfortable, were Tiffany and Wendy.

“I wonder what happened?” said Katie. “Mrs. Trumbull has that look she gets.”

Victoria’s large chin jutted out. Her nose lifted. Her deep-set eyes were hooded. Her back was straight. She held her lilac stick by its middle like a baton, horizontally, as if she might use it to emphasize some point. However, she was not talking.

Colley was.

“Wouldn’t you love to hear what he’s saying?” said Katie.

What Colley was saying was, “You didn’t need to show up at my attorney’s office with those girls in tow, Victoria.”

“You made an appointment with those two girls.”

“I’d have gotten back to the newspaper sooner or later. I had to discuss something with my attorney.”

“You made an appointment with them and you forgot it.”

“You didn’t need to show up at his office.”

The two girls lagged behind, taking small, slow steps. One of them ran her hand along the picket fence, avoiding the rose canes that were trained along the top.

Colley went on the offensive. “Have you found out who’s writing those phony obits yet? I’ve been signing a lot of checks made out to one Victoria Trumbull.”

Victoria stared ahead. “I’ve identified the writer.”

Colley stopped. The two girls behind him also stopped. The blonde fingered a rose that was hanging over the fence. Pale yellow petals dropped to the brick sidewalk.

“Who is he?” Colley demanded.

“I haven’t completed my investigation,” said Victoria. “I’ll let you know when I do.”

“For Christ’s sake, Victoria. I don’t want to see another one of those damned things.”

“Unlikely unless someone else is killed. I know who’s writing them and I’ll take care of the writer.”

“I suppose you’ll continue to bill me?” Colley started to walk again and the two girls moved away from the fence.

“We have a written agreement,” said Victoria. “Until I take care of the matter, I will continue to bill you.”

They had reached Summer Street, where the
Enquirer
had its offices.

“Hi, Mrs. Trumbull.”

Victoria looked up and smiled. “Katie. And Matt Pease. Nice to see you again.”

Colley scowled.

“Are you heading our way?” Victoria asked. “To the newspaper?”

“To pick up our final checks,” Matt said.

Colley’s scowl deepened. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about those photographs, Matt?”

Matt clutched the envelope he was carrying. “No, sir,” he said. “They’re not for sale.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Colley.

CHAPTER 15

It was late that same afternoon when Martha Jo left work. She took her beige sweater from a hanger in the closet and went to the door of Al Fox’s office. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do before I go, Mr. Fox?”

“No, thanks, Martha Jo. I’ll close up.”

“I wish you’d
lock
up, Mr. Fox. You really should pay more attention to security.”

Al looked over his glasses and grinned. “This is the Vineyard, not the mainland.”

“This is an
attorney
’s office, Mr. Fox.”

He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “I don’t keep sensitive material in the office.”

“Nevertheless …”

Al took off his glasses and asked politely, “Do you have big plans for tonight?”

“I’m going to work in my garden until dark, do my laundry, wash my hair, and finish my book.”

“What are you reading?”

“Tom Dwyer’s latest mystery.”

“The one Jameson wrote such a scathing review about?”

“I can’t imagine why. I think it’s his best so far.” Martha Jo slung her sweater over her shoulders. “If there’s nothing further you need, Mr. Fox, I’ll be leaving. You won’t stay late, will you?”

“I shouldn’t be here much longer than nine-thirty or so. A client is coming by after supper.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll grab a sandwich at the deli.” He stood up. “Enjoy your evening with Tom Dwyer.”

“Good night, then, Mr. Fox.”

A half-hour later, after Al had finished his sandwich and tossed the wrappers into his wastepaper basket, he heard footsteps on the stairs up to his office. His client was earlier than he’d expected. He hurriedly adjusted his toupee, brushed crumbs off his desk, and busied himself with the papers he’d been working on when Martha Jo left.

When he heard a knock on the outer door he called out, “The door’s not locked.” He straightened the collar of his shirt and looked up. The visitor was Colley Jameson.

“Not you again,” Al grumbled.

“I thought you might still be here.” The newspaper editor waved at the toupee. “Expecting someone else?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I have an appointment with a client in,” Al checked his watch, “a little over an hour. What brings you here tonight?”

“We didn’t finish what we were discussing earlier,” Colley said, settling himself in one of Al’s leather chairs and straightening the crease in his trousers.

“I already gave you the answer when Mrs. Trumbull, er, arrived.”

“I didn’t get around to asking you about obtaining some photos Matt Pease took.”

“I understand he’s no longer working for you.”

“Not full time,” said Colley.

“Did he take the photos with your camera?”

“No.”

“Develop them on your time on your premises with your equipment?”

“No.”

“If he doesn’t want to sell them to you, you don’t have a leg to stand on. What’s in the photos that you want so badly?”

Colley shifted in his seat. “My wife and Audrey Fieldstone.”

“Together?” said Al.

“I believe so.”

“Have you seen the photos?”

“No.” Colley shook his head. “But I have reason to believe one of them may shed light on Ambler Fieldstone’s so-called accident.”

“I suppose you could get the Coast Guard to subpoena the photos.”

“I’d rather not involve the Coast Guard.”

Al Fox laughed. “Thinking of a touch of blackmail, are we?”

Colley adjusted his tie. “I didn’t get a chance to explain my financial situation to you this afternoon.”

“Seems to me you did,” said Fox.

“I’ve got to get hold of four hundred fifty thousand, Al, and soon.”

“Are the photos worth that much?” Al stared at Colley for several seconds. “A half million?”

“This has nothing to do with the photos. I’ve changed the subject.” Colley examined his fingernails. “Four hundred and fifty thousand is what I need, not a half million.”

“What in God’s name do you need that much money for, Jameson?”

“I’ve made a financial commitment I’d rather not talk about, and I’ve got to borrow against the trust fund.”

“We’ve been through that,” said Al, scowling. “The discussion’s closed.”

“When Victoria Trumbull showed up with those girls I hadn’t been here more than ten minutes.”

“The discussion’s closed,” Al repeated. “Sorry.”

“You know how to slither around technicalities, Al. I’ve seen you do it. Shaking loose a few hundred thousand out of eight million shouldn’t be much of a problem.”

Al leaned back in his chair. “See here, Colley, the lawyers who wrote the trust up for your father knew what they were doing. You know how it’s to be distributed. Half to your issue, half to the newspaper trust, and a nice pension to whatever wife is,” Al smirked, “still married to you at the time of your death.”

“I have no children.”

Fox smiled. “Really?”

“Jee-sus, Al, you’re insufferable,” said Colley, shifting uncomfortably in the soft seat. “You know my situation. My expenses are going up and the worth of that damned stock is dropping every day.”

“Ex-wife number two’s timely demise has certainly eased your cash flow.”

“Not enough,” said Colley. “Al, I’ve got to have that money. I’m desperate, or I wouldn’t be coming to you.”

“You get a handsome allowance. Plus the income from the
Enquirer.
What are you doing with it all?” Al asked. “As far as I know, you were paying alimony to only two of your four ex-wives, and now it’s down to only one.” He picked up his letter opener and toyed with it.

Colley gestured at the dagger. “From Majorca? Hand delivering my check to my ex-wife, all expenses paid. By me. Did I pay for that piece of junk, too?”

Al ignored him. “You’re not into drugs, are you?”

“No way,” said Colley.

“Gambling?”

Colley shook his head.

“What, then?” Al looked at his watch again.

Colley shrugged, then straightened his tie again. “I sold some shares in the
Enquirer
to Fieldstone.”

“What! You can’t do that!”

Colley sat back in the chair and folded his arms over his chest. “That’s what I found out.”

“How much did you sell?”

“Thirty percent. Nine hundred thousand dollars.”

Al stared at his client. “Fieldstone gave you close to a million dollars?”

“He gave me half of the amount. Four hundred fifty thousand.”

“What kind of paper did you give him?”

“A notarized receipt for four hundred fifty thousand as half payment for thirty percent of the ownership of the newspaper.”

“Why didn’t you check with me first? That’s what lawyers are for, for God’s sake. You don’t own the
Island Enquirer
. The trust does.”

Colley said nothing.

Al Fox slid the point of his letter opener under the corner of his blotter. “I suppose the executors for his estate want their money back?”

Colley nodded.

Al leaned back in his chair again, his elbows on the armrests, his fingertips steepled under his chin. “You know, don’t you, that Fieldstone had mob connections?”

Colley smiled. “I know. A couple of their minions have been to see me.”

“Threatened to break both legs, I suppose?”

“They were more subtle.”

“So what did you spend the money on?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t, Colley? Or won’t?”

“Same thing.”

Al stood up. “What an ass you are, Colley. I can’t help you. That trust fund is airtight, watertight, and monkey-proof.”

Colley looked up. “How about a personal loan?”

“Surely you’re joking.” Al came from behind his desk. “I don’t have that kind of money. If I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t give it to you.” He looked at his watch again. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to get some things together before my client arrives.”

Colley stood, his feet apart, his blazer jacket open, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. “Look, Al, I know a lot about your legal shenanigans.”

Al smiled.

“The board of bar overseers would be interested in knowing about your overlapping clients. Conflicts of interest is putting it mildly.”

Al’s smile widened. “I don’t think you want to do that, Jameson.”

“We’ll see,” said Colley, and stalked out of the office.

“Shut the door behind you,” Al called out, and the door slammed. He sat again, still smiling, toying again with his letter opener.

Fifteen minutes later he had finished most of the paperwork for his client when he again heard footsteps on the stairs. He patted his toupee, picked up the papers on his desk, and when there was a knock on the door, said, “Come in, my dear.” He stood, and the door opened.

Al grunted. “I was expecting someone else. Matt Pease, isn’t it? I don’t think we’ve met.” He held out his hand and Matt shook it. “How can I help you?” Al sat down again.

“I’ll get right to the point,” said Matt. “Colley Jameson …”

“Ha, ha!” said Al.

Matt paused briefly, then went on. “I used to work for the
Enquirer
.”

Al nodded. “I’ve seen your photos in the paper. Nice.”

“Thanks. Well Colley Jameson fired me.”

“So I understand. Have a seat.”

Matt looked around and sat on the edge of one of the leather chairs. “He cut back my hours to a point where I had to get another source of income, so I started my own business.”

“Good move,” said Al. “Photography, I assume?”

“Weddings, baby pictures, postcards.”

“You should do well.”

Matt made a face. “Colley’s now claiming that the photos I’ve taken on my own time are his property, and he’s threatening to sue me.”

Al smiled. “I take it you’re not using his film? His darkroom? His equipment?”

“No.” Matt leaned forward and clasped his hands.

Al leaned back in his chair. “Does he claim all of your photos or only specific ones?”

“I took some pictures of his wife that he wants.”

Al’s smile broadened. “Sell them to him, then. Bill him.”

“I want to keep the photos for my own use.”

Al laughed. “Blackmail?”

Matt’s face reddened. “Of course not. Not at all.”

“Do you have any idea why Colley wants the photos so badly? What do they show?”

“His wife and Mrs. Fieldstone in Mrs. Fieldstone’s boat.”

“When did you take them?”

“About two weeks ago.”

Al Fox whistled. “I see.” He looked at his watch. “If you’re not planning blackmail, then you don’t need to worry about a thing. I won’t even bill you for this consultation.” He stood. “I’m expecting a client any minute.”

“Mr. Fox,” said Matt, still sitting, “Colley Jameson said he’s planning to sue me for those photos. I can’t afford to defend myself against even a frivolous lawsuit.”

“Don’t worry,” said Al. “He won’t sue you. If he does, call me.”

“But …” said Matt.

“Understand you expect a new addition to your family any minute?”

“Yes sir, but …”

“Congratulations.” Al held out his hand. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll see you to the door.”

Matt got up, shook Al’s hand, and walked slowly out of the office. Al closed the door behind him and looked at his watch again.

Less than five minutes later, he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. He went to the door and opened it. Tom Dwyer was almost on the top step.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Al said, looking up at the tall writer. “I’m expecting a client any minute.”

“Won’t take me long.” Tom followed Al into the office and shut the door. He sat in the armchair Matt had vacated, crossed one leg over the other, and put his hand on his ankle. Al sat in the chair across from him.

Tom pushed his bush hat back from his forehead and said, “Can you get that bastard to submit to a DNA test?”

“Which bastard?”

“Jameson.”

“Jameson,” Al repeated. “Ha, ha!” He added, almost to himself, “Naturally.”

“DNA,” said Tom.

Al was silent for several moments. “Possibly.”

“What do we need to do, get a sample of his blood or whatever?”