Paperwhite Narcissus (6 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

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Victoria climbed the steep stairs to the
Grackle
office, greeted Botts, and seated herself in the overstuffed chair. She removed her shoe. Her sore toe throbbed.
He looked up over his glasses. “Out walking?”
She set her stockinged foot on the floor and sighed. “Have you heard about the body that washed up at Wasque this morning?”
“I heard about it on the scanner—half at Wasque, half at Quansoo. I gather you had something to do with finding the half at Quansoo?”
Victoria nodded. “About a mile down the beach near the opening.”
Botts picked up his pencil. “The scanner didn’t give his name.”
“I don’t suppose his identity is a secret.” Victoria patted her hair. “Your newspaper might as well have the scoop over the
Enquirer
.”
Botts tapped the pencil on his desk.
Victoria coughed delicately. “Did I hear you say I’m on the
Grackle
’s staff?”
“The
Grackle
only covers West Tisbury goings-on.”
“The upper half was found in West Tisbury.”
“Did you find out whose body it is?”
Victoria nodded.
“I told you I don’t pay salaries,” said Botts.
“And I told you it’s the principle of the thing,” said Victoria.
Botts took a deep breath, let it out in a great sigh, and
swiveled in his chair. He reached down and ruffled the ears of the black dog. With another sigh, he stood up, reached over the stacked papers, shook Victoria’s gnarled hand with his own gnarled hand, and sat down again. He picked up the pencil, pulled a clean scrap of paper from somewhere in the pile in front of him, and adjusted his glasses. “Okay, Madam Reporter. Whose body is it?”
 
At the
Enquirer
’s emergency editorial meeting the next day, Saturday, Colley flicked his fingernails at the latest issue of the
Grackle,
hot off the West Tisbury Library’s copier.
“Have you seen this?” he asked the assembled reporters. He tossed the broadsheet at Matt Pease, the photographer, who was sitting closest. Then he opened his desk drawer, unwrapped a roll of Tums, and popped one into his mouth.
Katie Bowen, who was sitting next to Matt, peered over his shoulder.
“You were there yesterday,
Miz
Bowen. You saw the body. You heard the medical examiner. Presumably, you were taking notes. Or were you taking note of that Edgartown cop? I understand he drove you back to the
Enquirer
.”
Katie blushed and sat back again.
Colley went on. “So who finds the body? That hack mystery writer.”
“Hardly a hack,” a voice muttered off to one side. “
Publishers Weekly
said …”
Colley interrupted the speaker. “Anybody care to tell me how Botts managed to scoop the
Enquirer
?”
Matt turned the broadsheet over. “Did you see this?” He handed the paper back to the editor.
Colley’s eyes narrowed. The masthead listed two names. One was William Botts, editor and publisher. The other was Victoria Trumbull, reporter. Colley’s face turned an unhealthy red. As he reached for the phone he gestured to the reporters and staff
members sitting in front of his desk. “Get out of here! All of you! Get out!”
 
Victoria hung up the phone and turned to Casey, who had stopped by with Victoria’s mail.
“Now what?” Casey asked.
Victoria was smiling broadly, her face wrinkled in delight. “Colley wants me to come to Edgartown to talk with him. Apparently he held an emergency meeting at the newspaper after he read the latest issue of the
Grackle
.”
“Everybody on the Island’s read it.”
“The phone’s been busy all morning,” said Victoria. “William had to put this week’s issue back on the press.”
“I didn’t think the library could turn out more than twenty copies.”
“Fifty,” said Victoria. “That was his total press run.” She shuffled some papers on the table in front of her. “Tisbury Printer is printing another fifty.”
“I suppose you’d like a lift into Edgartown for your editorial meeting?” Casey asked, moving away from the doorway where she’d been standing.
“If it’s not too much trouble.” Victoria glanced out at the overcast sky. She eased herself out of her chair and went into the dining room in search of her cloth bag and her raincoat.
“I have to do a couple of errands in Vineyard Haven and Oak Bluffs first,” Casey said, once Victoria was seated in the Bronco.
Victoria held up her crossword puzzle book. “I certainly don’t mind keeping Colley Jameson waiting.”
 
Candy answered her own phone. “Keene Realtors, keenly aware of your Island housing needs. May I help you?”
“Hi. How‘ya doin’?” Nice male voice.
“How may I help you?” said Candy.
“I’m looking to rent a place for a couple of weeks while I, um, track down a friend.”
Really
nice voice.
“It’s awfully late to get a good summer place. When did you need it?”
“Right now, end of June.”
“How large a place?”
“Just me.” He laughed.
“I might be able to help you, then,” said Candy, paging through her rental book. “Are you on Island now?”
“I’m at the ferry dock in Vineyard Haven.”
Candy smiled. “It looks like it’s about to rain. You’d better take a cab to my office, and I’ll show you what I’ve got.” She hoped he wasn’t some fat old creep. “What’s your name?”
“Buddy Smith.”
“Will you be paying by check or credit card?”
“Cash,” said Buddy.
 
By the time Casey finished her errands, it was raining heavily. Victoria looked up from her puzzle.
Rainwater dripped off Casey’s hair and rolled down the shoulders of her blue windbreaker. “Sloppy out there,” she said.
The wild roses that lined the road between Oak Bluffs and Edgartown were bright in the gray gloom. Low breakers pounded the bathing beach to their left, empty now except for a few gulls. Casey followed a slow-moving car into Edgartown and down Main Street, past the house where Victoria had been born.
“I’ll drop you off in front of the newspaper and find a parking place,” Casey said. “Take your time, Victoria. I have plenty of paperwork with me.”
Victoria went up the brick walk, holding a newspaper over her head to keep her hair dry. She greeted Faith at the reception desk and climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor and Colley’s office. Again, the line of reporters grinned and saluted her. She marched the length of the room and through the door to the editor’s office.
Colley looked up with a sour expression. “You certainly took your time.”
Victoria moved the visitor’s chair so it no longer faced the window. “I had business to attend to,” she said.
Colley scowled. “I had no intention of firing you, Victoria.”
Victoria rummaged in her bag and withdrew the crumpled letter he had sent her. “Would you care to reread this?”
Colley ignored the letter. “You don’t want to be associated with William Botts’s scandal sheet.”
“Don’t I?” said Victoria.
“I’m prepared to reinstate you.”
“No, thank you,” said Victoria.
“How much is Botts paying you?”
“That’s between Mr. Botts and me.”
“I can probably pay you twice what he’s paying you.”
“Impossible,” said Victoria.
“I can give you a raise over what you were making here.”
“How much?”
“Five dollars a week more,” said Colley.
Victoria got to her feet. “You’re wasting my time.”
She started for the door just as Charity Hall, who was in charge of the newspaper’s morgue, knocked and entered.
“Mr. Jameson …”
“I’m busy, Charity.”
“I think you need to see this, Mr. Jameson.”
“Not now.”
Victoria returned to her chair and sat again.
“I think you really, really need to see this, Mr. Jameson.” Charity handed Colley a business-size envelope that had been slit open.
“It was mailed to the morgue, Mr. Jameson.”
“I can see that, for God’s sake.” He put on his glasses and examined the postmark.
Charity clasped her hands in front of her. “It has an Island postmark.”
Colley glared at her. “Believe it or not, I can read.” He extracted the letter from its envelope and read. “Oh hell,” he muttered, and tossed the letter onto his desk.
Victoria sat forward so she could read the letter upside down. It began, “The body of Colley Jameson, age fifty-five, was found yesterday, washed up on South Beach. Mr. Jameson was apparently the victim of a shark attack … .”
Charity waited. “What do you want me to do with this, Mr. Jameson?”
“Just go away, will you? Go back to the morgue.”
Charity left the room and closed the door gently behind her.
Victoria sat back in her chair. “You’d better call the police, Colley.”
“The hell I will. That’s exactly what some joker is hoping I’ll do.”
“This has gone beyond a joke,” Victoria said. “One person is dead. Not quite a shark attack, but close.”
“His death and this fake obit have nothing to do with each other.”
“You don’t think so?” Victoria pushed her sleeve off her wrist and looked at her watch. “I’ve got an interview in a half-hour.”
“An interview, eh? Goddamned cub reporter.” Colley stood up, hands flat on his tidy desk. “For God’s sake, do you expect an apology from me? Well, you won’t get it.”
“Certainly not.”
Colley sat down again and reached into his lower desk drawer, where he kept his flask.
Victoria got to her feet and before she swept out of the editor’s office, turned. “When you decide you need my help in solving the mystery of the phony obituaries, call me. I’ll send you my rate card.”
With that, she closed the door firmly and marched between the two rows of reporters’ desks to the stairs that led down to the front office and out to the street, where Casey waited.
The memorial service for J. Ambler Fieldstone was held at the Whaling Church at noon the next day. Rain fell steadily. The police had closed off Main Street and an overflow of mourners and celebrants waited on the brick sidewalk in the gray drizzle.
Audrey Fieldstone, wearing a nicely fitted black silk designer suit that set off her red hair, emerged from the church, followed by a stream of mourners. She held the stout arm of Toby the undertaker, who was several inches taller. They stood in the shelter of the portico. Audrey gazed at the umbrellas below her.
Katie Bowen, who was in the crowd on the sidewalk, shielded her notebook with the flap of her yellow slicker and looked away briefly while she drew the hood over her hair. When she looked up again, Colley had come out of the door of the church and was heading toward the widow. Calpurnia followed her husband.
Katie pushed to the front of the crowd and climbed the side steps of the church, where she was sheltered from the rain and could hear without being obvious.
Audrey looked up as Colley approached.
Katie moved closer.
Audrey hissed at Toby through her tight half-smile. “Get that whore out of here.”
Calpurnia turned away and headed for the steps.
Colley extended his hand to the widow. “My condolences.”
Audrey said to Toby, still smiling, “Get him away from me, too. Now.”
Toby put an arm around Audrey’s shoulder and spoke softly to Colley. “Please, Mr. Jameson. The widow needs her space at a time like this.”
Calpurnia had already started down the church steps. She passed through the curtain of rain that overflowed the roof gutters and disappeared in the sea of umbrellas.
 
Matt Pease was waiting outside the editor’s office with his camera bag when Colley returned from the memorial service. Matt had been standing outside the church.
Colley gestured Matt into his office. “I don’t suppose you had a chance to develop the film, did you?”
Matt nodded. “I got a few pictures of the crowd standing in the rain. Got an excellent one of you and Mrs. Fieldstone. Nice front-page shot.” Matt opened the flap on his camera bag and took out a glossy black-and-white photo.
Colley studied the photo and nodded. “Good man.”
“I also got a couple of nice clear pictures of your wife and Mrs. Fieldstone at the funeral and several days before.”
“Let me have them, too,” said Colley.
“I don’t think so,” said Matt.
Colley smiled. “I suppose you caught my wife and Audrey Fieldstone glaring at each other. You can hardly blame me for my wife’s expression.” He held out his hand. “I’d like those photos, Matt.”
“Sorry,” said Matt.
Colley flushed. “Those photos belong to the newspaper.”
“If you recall, Mr. Jameson, I work part time for the paper now. I took these on my own time with my own film. My darkroom. I’ll bill you for the photos you use. But you can’t have the ones of Mrs. Fieldstone and your wife.”
Colley stood up. “This is extortion.”
“Certainly not,” said Matt, indignantly. “It’s business.”
“Let me have them, then,” said Colley, holding out his hand again. “I’ll pay you for the photos and negatives.”
Matt lifted his camera bag onto his shoulder. “As you suggested, Mr. Jameson, I’ve been looking for summer work. I have an offer for these photos.”
“How much are they paying you?”
“I don’t think you want to know,” said Matt, and left the office.
 
Victoria and Casey were on their way back to West Tisbury after the funeral. “He’s tunnel-visioned,” Victoria said. “It’s not a joke when a man is killed. Yet he’s determined not to involve the police.” She glanced at Casey. “You’re not much help, either.”
“My hands are tied, Victoria,” Casey snapped. “I agree that he should talk to the Edgartown cops. Whoever sent those obits definitely has a weird sense of humor. That shark obituary isn’t funny.”
The Bronco’s windshield wipers kept up a steady
swish-slat, swish-slat
. Inside, the glass had steamed up and Victoria wiped a clear spot in front of Casey.
“Thanks,” said Casey.
Victoria settled back again. “Did you hear what Audrey said to Toby when Colley came up to her?”
“I was too far away to hear anything.”
“She called Calpurnia a whore, Colley a pimp, and threatened to deal with both of them.”
“People say dumb things when they’re under stress.”
“I told you, didn’t I, that Calpurnia was having an affair with Audrey’s husband?”
“I don’t know where you get all this stuff, Victoria. I thought it was Colley who was running around behind Calpurnia’s back.”
“That, too,” said Victoria.
Casey shook her head. “Want me to drop you off at your place? I’ve got to stop by the station house. Call the Coast Guard, see if they found the boat.”
“I’ll go with you. Then I’d like to go to the
Grackle
, if you don’t mind.”
Casey smiled. “I see you got the job.”
Victoria watched the steady rain slash against the windshield. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the boat belonged to Fieldstone.”
“Run down by his own boat?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened.”
At the station house, Casey called the Coast Guard while Victoria waited. She asked a couple of questions, made some notes, and raised her eyebrows at Victoria.
“They found Fieldstone’s boat washed up near Tuckernuck,” she said when she hung up. “Nobody on board.”
“And the propeller?”
“The blades were bent.” Casey glanced at her notes. “The Coast Guard says, ‘Consistent with encountering a semi-submerged, body-like object.’ Where’s Tuckernuck?”
“It’s a small island off Nantucket.”
Casey put her still-damp jacket back on. “Let’s go. I’ll wait, if you’d like, while you talk to Botts.”
“Thank you, but I’m sure he’ll give me a ride home.”
The
Grackle
office was a short distance from the police station. Victoria ducked into the barn and made her way upstairs to the loft.
Botts rose to his feet. “Good afternoon, Madam Reporter. How was the memorial service?”
Victoria took off her raincoat, laid it on the back of her chair, and told him what Fieldstone’s widow had said to the undertaker.
“Whore?” Botts whistled. At the sound, the black dog, who’d been lying on a pile of newspapers, thumped his tail.
The scanner behind the desk crackled. Botts and Victoria listened as the communications center reported that a car had skidded on the wet road and hit a tree. No injuries.
“Go on, Victoria,” said Botts.
“I’m sure Colley heard what Audrey said.”
Botts looked down at his pencil.
Victoria turned and sat in the overstuffed chair. “I have another scoop for you.”
“Shoot,” said Botts, wetting the tip of his pencil on his tongue.
“The Coast Guard found Ambler Fieldstone’s boat, and it looks as though that was the boat that ran over him.”
Botts scribbled.
The black dog sighed, opened his eyes, and shut them again. Botts took off his glasses, cleaned them, and put them back on.
 
It was still raining. Candy examined the nails of her left hand while she waited for someone to answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Fieldstone?” Candy asked.
“Yes?”
“I realize this must be a terrible time for you, right after Mr. Fieldstone’s funeral and all, but I have something important I’d like to discuss with you.” She opened her desk drawer and took out a nail file.
“Who is this?”
“Candy Keene. Keene Realtors in West Tisbury.”
“I know who you are,” said Audrey. “You’re right. This is a terrible time. Call me sometime next week.”
Candy held the phone against her cheek with her right shoulder and filed the rough spot on the nail of her pinky while she talked. “My sincerest condolences, Mrs. Fieldstone. But I don’t think you’ll want this to wait.”
“Can’t you understand? My husband died. His funeral was just a few hours ago.”
“Oh,” said Candy, licking her fingernail. “Was J. Ambler Fieldstone your husband?”
There was a long silence before Audrey said, “What are you getting at?”
“I’ve been having an interesting discussion with a man named Buddy …” Candy paused.
There was a slight hesitation before Audrey said, “Where do you want to meet?”
 
The rain continued off and on for several days and finally stopped. The ground was still soggy. It was the Thursday following Fieldstone’s funeral. Victoria was again sitting in the overstuffed chair in the
Grackle
loft when the scanner cut in. The communications center reported that a woman had been found shot near the Tiasquam Brook in West Tisbury. Botts turned up the volume. The police and ambulance were responding. No word on the woman’s condition or name.
Victoria levered herself out of the chair. “May I use your phone?”
Botts pushed it toward her.
When Victoria finished speaking she handed the phone back to Botts, tugged her blue cap out of her bag, and settled it on her head at a rakish angle. “Casey will pick me up here in a couple of minutes.”
“Looks as though I may have to give you a raise,” Botts said.
 
“You want to guess who the victim is?” Casey asked Victoria, who had settled into her seat in the Bronco.
“Who?”
“Candy Keene. She’s still alive, or was when the call came in.”
“Colley’s ex-wife,” Victoria added.
“The ecdysiast.” Casey avoided a large puddle and turned out of Botts’s drive.
“Who found her?”
“A couple of guys, father and son. The ones who target-shoot every Thursday afternoon in the field next to the brook.”
“Did one of them shoot her by accident?”
“I don’t think anyone knows at this point. Miss Keene filed a complaint against them a couple of weeks ago. Ironic if one of them shot her.”
By the time they reached the field that adjoined Candy Keene’s house, the ambulance had arrived. Casey parked behind Doc Jeffers, who was getting off his Harley. He held up a gloved hand in greeting. “Busy week,” he said. He was wearing his black leather cape with a silver-and-blue caduceus embroidered on the back, two snakes twined around a winged staff, and heavy leather boots festooned with steel chains. He lifted his black bag out of the carrier on the back of his motorcycle and clanked off in the direction of the group that had gathered in the hayfield.
Casey raised the collar of her jacket against the raw wind. “You might as well wait here, where it’s warm, Victoria. I’ll find out what’s going on and be right back.”
Victoria had tied a scarf printed with wisteria blossoms over her cap. She reached for her stick and opened the door without answering.
The father and his son were standing at the edge of the field near the thicket that edged the brook. The father was wearing a red-and-black plaid wool jacket, the son was wearing a purple-and-white Vineyarders T-shirt. The son was about thirteen, a tall skinny redhead with freckles that stood out on his pale face. His father held two rifles in one hand; his other hand was on his son’s shoulder. The older man was a taller, bulkier version of the boy.
Victoria, bundled up like a peasant woman in babushka, trenchcoat, and rubber gardening boots, followed Casey, who identified herself to the father.
Three EMTs were bending over the figure on the ground near the shrubbery. They had strapped the victim onto a stretcher. While Victoria watched, they carried her to the ambulance and transferred her into the back. The ambulance started up, the siren cut in, and the flashing red lights disappeared down State Road in the direction of the hospital.
Victoria turned back to the man and boy.
“I’m Sean Michaels,” the father said. “And this is my son Sean.”
Young Sean was shivering. “I didn’t know she was there,” he said. “I didn’t see her at all.”
“Tell me what happened,” Casey said gently. “I know you’ve got permission from the owner to shoot here.”
The father shifted uncomfortably. “Thursday is my day off. We wanted to get in one last practice shoot before my cousin Wilfred moves his hay.” He pointed to a stack of about a dozen hay bales with a bedraggled paper bulls-eye. “We set up those bales last fall.”
Casey took notes.

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