The Paperwhite Narcissus

by Cynthia Riggs

  “Colley.”

  Victoria frowned. “He doesn’t usually write book reviews.”

  “He shouldn’t,” Tom said. “He has no idea how to critique. He thinks what he’s writing is clever, but it’s not. It’s mean-spirited.”

  “As a writer himself, he should have some sensitivity for others.”

  “Colley? Sensitive to others?” Tom shook his head.

  “Surely with your success those reviews of his don’t affect you, do they?”

  Tom took his pipe out of his mouth and tamped down the tobacco with a wooden match. “I didn’t think I’d be so bothered by his reviews, but I am. I’ve had writer’s block since the last review came out six months ago.”

  “I can understand. We creative types are more sensitive than we want to admit.” Victoria patted her hair. “Where do your ideas come from?”

  Tom turned and swept his arm toward the Island behind them. “Need you ask?”

  “People are always saying to me,” she said, laughing, “‘It must be nice to live in such a quiet place.’ And they’re always asking, ‘What do you do in the winter?’”

  Tom laughed, reeled in his line, and flung it out again, then reeled in Victoria’s and cast.

  Victoria decided to bring up the subject that was on her mind. “You know about the obituaries Colley’s received, don’t you?”

  Tom said, “Oh?”

  “Four so far.”

  “Hey,” Tom said. “I think you’ve got something on your line, Victoria.” He reeled it in. “Nope.” He detached a clump of seaweed and cast again. “I’d better check mine. When a blue hits you usually know, but they fool you sometimes. How about that breakfast of yours? I could do with a cup of coffee about now.”

  Victoria tried to catch his eye, but he wasn’t looking at her. She opened the picnic basket and brought out the bacon and egg sandwiches she’d made so early this morning it had seemed like the middle of the night.

  While they were eating, Victoria brought up the obituaries again, but Tom was as elusive as the blues.

  It was almost an hour before Victoria got her first strike. Her rod arced and her line whizzed out. She called to Tom, who jabbed his own rod into its holder and rushed to her, and, by gosh, she’d hooked a bluefish. She reeled in the line until she was too tired to turn the small handle any more, then Tom did the rest.

  “You’ll eat tonight, Victoria. I’ll fillet your fish for you.”

  While he was cleaning the fish, Victoria tried once again. “You knew, didn’t you, that Colley fired that nice young reporter?”

  “Katie? Yes. Damn shame. She’s a good writer.”

  “Colley fired me, too.”

  “So I heard.” Tom took his unlit pipe out of his mouth and relit it.

  “I’m working with William Botts on the Grackle.”

  Tom nodded.

  Victoria tried a more direct approach. “What’s your feeling about Colley? Besides the fact that he’s not a competent reviewer, that is.”

  “Tough job, being an editor.” Tom turned away. “I’d better tend my own line if I hope to have any supper.”

  “Do your daughter and your wife like to fish?”

  “Yes, they both do. They’re both good cooks, too. Lynn is my wife’s daughter from her first marriage, you know.”

  “Oh.” Victoria felt unaccountably embarrassed.

  “Sometimes they come fishing with me.” Tom reeled in and cast again. “Not as often as I’d like. Lynn’s sixteen now and has her own life. I usually fish with Simon Newkirk.” Tom tinkered with his pipe.

  Victoria shifted slightly in her chair. As she did, she saw her rod bend. “Another one!” she called out.

  Tom reeled in her second fish. “Nice one. I may have to beg one of your blues for my own supper.” Tom looked over at his rod, and his own line was streaming out. “They’re running now.”

  For the next hour, Tom worked both of their lines. Victoria kept all five fish she’d caught. Tom had filleted them and stashed them in a plastic bag. The fillets would freeze nicely. But she hadn’t been able to get a word out of him, one way or the other, about the obituaries. Tom had written them, she was sure. But why? What did he have against Colley that would make him play such an odd joke?

  Victoria stared at the horizon line, where sea and sky met, puzzling. She was missing something, some piece that would explain things. Whoever had sent those notes to Colley had a peculiar sense of humor. Tom’s piping plover recipe was that sort of humor. Was Tom hoping to jump-start his own blocked writing? Writer’s block could be devastating. She shook her head.

  Tom took his pipe out of his mouth. “Had enough, Victoria? The tide’s about to change. The fish will stop running when it does.”

  “Are we going to return along the same way we came?” Victoria tried to keep the concern out of her voice as she thought of that fragile ribbon of sand road.

  Tom checked his watch. “We’d better take the ferry. With the tide coming in, the bar can break through any time.”

  Victoria rose from her seat and carried her bag of fillets to the car. “Thank you for inviting me. And for doing all the work.”

  Tom took his pipe out of his mouth. “It’s a pleasure to fish with a pro.”

  Victoria didn’t believe in taking naps. When she got home, she settled into her mouse-colored wing chair with McCavity in her lap and a pad of notepaper and a pen. She intended to draft a poem about this morning’s expedition. She had enough material for two or three poems. A sonnet and perhaps a sestina. She liked the challenge of formal poetry. Sestinas had a netlike quality that would work well with the motif of fishing.

  But it had been a long and early morning.

  She woke with a jerk when she heard a knock on the kitchen door, startling McCavity, who was dozing in her lap. Victoria ran a hand over her hair and eased herself out of her chair.

  Botts had arrived a half-hour before Katie and the two girls were expected.

  “Catch any fish?” he asked.

  “Five.”

  “Surf casting? You caught five fish surf casting?”

  “I don’t know why you should be surprised. I used to fish quite often when I was a girl.” Before they sat down she asked, “Have you had lunch yet?”

  “I ate about an hour ago,” Botts said. “I’m not sure I’d have the stamina you do.”

  “I had a bit of help casting and reeling the fish in. And Tom filleted them for me. How about some tea?”

  “Please.”

  Victoria put the water on to boil, heated up some soup for herself, and when the tea had brewed, joined Botts in the cookroom with the tea, her soup, and a pilot cracker.

  “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 th
em.”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 14

  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 h
anded 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.