Table of Contents
Title Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
OTHER MARTHA’S VINEYARD MYSTERIES BY CYNTHIA RIGGS
Copyright Page
FOR
DIONIS COFFIN RIGGS
POET
1898–1997
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I told fellow Vineyarder, fisherman, and mystery writer Phil Craig that I’d never driven along the slender barrier bar that separates Katama Bay from the Atlantic, he said, “We’ll take you there!” He and his wife Shirley spent half a day driving me around a part of the Island I’d never seen before. He also explained how the currents at Wasque might carry a body where I wanted Victoria to find it, and reassured me by saying, “You can write anything you want.”
Dr. David Finkelstein, Victoria’s, Katie’s, and my eye doctor, is a fisherman first. He gave me advice on surf casting and bluefish behavior, then read the manuscript to make sure I got the fishing parts right.
Nurse Christine Flanders Fielder, whose Vineyard roots are as deep as mine, checked the passages involving hospital procedures and poison reactions and treatment. “You do realize,” she scolded me, “that we would never divulge information the way Hope does.” She grinned. “But I guess you can write anything you want.”
Members of my two writers’ groups have kept me going. Among them are Carolyn O’Daly, Wendy Hathaway, Linda Shumway, Lois Remmer, Brenda Horrigan, Jackie Sexton, Jeanne Hewitt, and Shirley Mayhew. Thanks to Alvida and Ralph Jones, Ann and Bill Fielder, and William Stewart for critiquing the manuscript.
Special thanks to Nancy Love, my agent, and Ruth Cavin, my St. Martin’s editor. The best in their fields, both of them.
And thanks, as always, to Arlene Silva, who got me started, and Jonathan Revere, who kept me going.
CHAPTER 1
The breeze blew off Nantucket Sound, past the lighthouse that guarded the entrance to the harbor, past the freshly painted captains’ houses lining North Water Street, past white picket fences laden with yellow, pink, and white roses. The breeze whispered through the screened front windows of the Island Enquirer, carrying the scent of honeysuckle, roses, and the sea.
Ordinarily, Victoria Trumbull wallowed in the newness, richness, and sensuousness of a June day like this.
But not today.
She didn’t hear the tidy sounds of hedge clippers and lawn mowers. A boy painting the trim around the newspaper’s windows called out, “Hey, Mrs. Trumbull,” and she paid no attention. The boy shrugged, and dipped his paintbrush into his pail again.
Victoria opened the gate in the picket fence, strode up the walk, heedless of the way her lilac-wood stick jabbed the bright green moss that bordered the uneven bricks, marched through the open front door, and stopped at the reception desk.
Faith Norton, the receptionist, greeted her with a broad smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Trumbull. Nice day.”
“Where is he?” said Victoria.
“Mr. Jameson? I think he’s back by the press. Want me to call him?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Victoria pushed her way through the inside door that opened into a room with a dozen desks. She ignored the greetings of several people who looked up from their computer screens as she passed and continued through a second inner door that led to the far back room. There, the huge old press was churning out a steady stream of this week’s edition of the Island Enquirer.
A short man with too-dark hair spun around as Victoria pushed the door shut behind her.
“What are you doing here, Victoria?” he shouted over the noise of the press. He was wearing a white shirt with broad blue stripes, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a tie that Victoria recognized as his prep school tie, loosened at his throat.
“I need to talk to you, Colley Jameson,” Victoria shouted back.
“Hell of a time.” The editor gestured at the press, which was spitting out pages of the real-estate section. “Call and make an appointment.”
He spun back to the press, his jowls quivering, his tie flying out in an arc.
Victoria got as far as shouting “Appoint—!” when the press snatched up the end of Colley’s tie along with the ads it was printing. Colley tried to free his tie from the jaws of the press, but the press ran on and his tie tightened around his neck.
In that instant, Victoria threw down her walking stick, flung herself at the giant red button on the side of the press, and slammed it with her gnarled hand.
The press stopped with a shudder. Except for Victoria’s heavy breathing and Colley’s muffled oaths, the pressroom was deathly quiet.
“Well?” Colley mumbled, his mouth pressed into the photo of a water-view trophy home.
“Do you want me to cut your tie? I’ll have to find scissors.”
“Jee-sus Christ,” Colley mumbled. “Do something!”
Victoria found a pair of long editorial shears in the composing room next door and returned.
“Careful!” Colley mumbled as she snipped close to his nose.
Reporters, photographers, rewrite people, the ad sales team, the keeper of the morgue, the receptionist, swarmed into the room, drawn by the silence of the press.
Once freed, Colley glared at the crowd that had gathered around him. “What the hell are you gaping at! Get back to work, all of you.”
There were a few snickers and Colley’s face flushed a dark, unhealthy red.
Someone said, in a stage whisper, “What’s black and white and read all over … ?”
“Get out!”
Colley loosened what was left of his tie and pulled it off over his head. Everybody but Victoria had gone. She handed the cutoff tie ends to Colley, who put them in his shirt pocket.
“It would be polite to say thank you,” she said.
“The hell I will,” said Colley. “If you hadn’t distracted me …”
Victoria pointed a knobby finger at the sign on the wall that stated, in ultra-large letters, NO TIES OR LOOSE CLOTHING AROUND THE PRESS.
Colley took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hands.
“You’d better wash your face, too, before the ink sets,” Victoria said. “I’ll be in your office.”
Colley’s office was on the second floor of the old building, separated from the reporters’ desks by a waist-high partition topped by a clear glass window. As Victoria walked down the aisle between desks, she was met with grins and thumbs up and a salute.
A few minutes later, a freshly scrubbed Colley, his striped shirt open at the neck, walked between the desks. On either side, reporters’ fingers flew over keyboards.
The editor shut the door, glared at Victoria, who was waiting in his visitor’s chair, and sat at his desk. Victoria, facing the bright June sunlight that streamed through the window behind him, couldn’t see his expression.
Her back was straight. She held both hands on her stick. Her beaky nose was high, her eyes were hooded. Her wrinkles were set in an expression of disapproval.
Colley opened the bottom drawer of his desk, brough
t out an ornate silver flask, unscrewed the top, and took a deep swallow. He tightened the cap and put the flask back in his drawer. He wiped his mouth with a blue-bordered handkerchief that had matched his tie, refolded it neatly, and returned the handkerchief to his pocket.
Victoria said nothing.
Colley swiveled his chair left and right, left and right. “You have to keep up with the times, Victoria. The Enquirer needs a new look. More youth appeal.”
“That’s why you fired me?”
“I didn’t fire you. I suggested that you retire. There’s a difference.” Colley fiddled with a beach stone holding down a stack of papers on his otherwise tidy desk. “You’ve been writing that West Tisbury social column for, what, fifty years now?”
“News column, not social column. I’ve been writing the West Tisbury news column since the year you were born.”
“Forty-nine, then. It’s about time you retired. Give younger writers a break.”
“Bah,” said Victoria. The sunlight coming from behind Colley was making her eyes water and she dabbed at them.
Colley looked down and toyed with the beach stone paperweight.
“You know, don’t you Colley, there are laws that protect workers against age discrimination.”
“You don’t need protection, for God’s sake,” Colley snapped. “You are ninety-two, after all.”
“Exactly my point.” Victoria withdrew a crumpled letter from her cloth bag. “Do you plan to defend this in court?” She tapped the edge of the letter on Colley’s desk.
Colley sighed.
“Can you afford to lose another discrimination suit?”
Colley swiveled his chair and looked out of the window at the street below.
Victoria waited.
Finally he turned back to his desk. “Stop tapping that damned letter, will you?”
There was a knock on the door and Faith, the receptionist, entered with the mail. She glanced at Victoria, then stepped behind Colley’s desk. “Didn’t you notice, Mr. Jameson? The light is right in Mrs. Trumbull’s eyes.” She lowered the shade.
Victoria said, “Thank you,” and Faith dropped the mail on Colley’s desk and left.
Colley picked up the top envelope and slit it open with a silver-handled letter opener. Victoria was still in the same position, her expression unchanged, when he finally looked up. He pushed the remainder of his unopened mail to one side.
“What the hell do you expect me to do, Victoria?” Before she could answer, he went on. “I get nothing but crap from everybody.” He flicked his hand at the mail on his desk. “Letters from every damned environmentalist on this Island. All riled up because I support the golf course. The affordable housing types are furious because I accept upscale real-estate ads. Open space people are angry because I back the idea of a mini-mall. Do any of these do-gooders buy ads? Hah!” Colley stood up, raised the blinds again, and glared out of the window.
Victoria started to say something, but Colley went on. “They don’t believe me when I say that I’m as much of an environmentalist as the best of them.” He tapped his chest. “I’m the one defending the piping plovers. By sticking up for the damned birds, now I’ve outraged all the fishermen.”
“Only the surf casters,” Victoria said. “But …”
“The damn fishermen run their buggies all over the dunes. I write one editorial supporting the birds and look at the mail I get. Shall I go on?” He sat again.
“You asked me …” Victoria started.
Colley continued. “Readers cancel subscriptions because I accept too many ads. Advertisers cancel because they don’t like my editorials. I get sued for harassment, sex discrimination, and now age discrimination. How does anyone expect me to pay the bills?” He grunted. “I’ve got four ex-wives to support, for God’s sake.” He jabbed his finger at his chest. “I have to have armor-plated skin to publish this goddamned newspaper.”
“I see I’m wasting my time.” Victoria tucked the crumpled letter back in her cloth bag, stood, and headed for the door.
As she opened the door, Colley said, “You never told me what you expect of me.”
Victoria turned. “You’re right. I didn’t.”
CHAPTER 2
The clerk at Al’s liquor store gave a thumbs up to J. Ambler Fieldstone. “Don’t let those green types get to you, Mr. Fieldstone. There are plenty of us Islanders who want that new golf course of yours.” He lifted the case of sauvignon blanc that Fieldstone had purchased. “I’ll carry this to your Outback for you.”
“Thanks, Dave. And thanks for your support.” Fieldstone wrote out a check for the wine, and when the clerk returned from the parking lot, slipped him a twenty-dollar bill.
“Thank you, Mr. Fieldstone, sir.”
Fieldstone then drove across the road to the Stop & Shop and parked next to a Ford pickup. The pickup sported a bumper sticker printed with Day-Glo orange letters that vibrated against a blue background. It read GOLF COURSE NO! Fieldstone frowned and went into the store.
Like most Islanders, he was dressed in a frayed plaid shirt, worn jeans, and scuffed boat shoes. He was in his early fifties, medium height, medium build, and medium looking except for his intense blue eyes and profuse, prematurely white hair.
He stopped at the gourmet section of the store and selected an assortment of cheeses and crackers. He added white grapes, a roasted free-range chicken, freshly ground Costa Rican coffee, and fresh orange juice. He put together a salad for two at the salad bar, and chose warm-out-of-the-oven breakfast pastries at the bakery.
The woman at the checkout counter slid the Brie and cheddar past the scanner, and the scanner beeped. “Looks like you and the wife are going out on your boat for the weekend, Mr. Fieldstone.” The pate and the crackers and the smoked bluefish went past the scanner.
“Something like that,” Fieldstone replied vaguely.
“It’s supposed to be nice this weekend. My husband and I went out last week on my day off, but it was still kind of cold. Plastic or paper?” she asked, referring to the grocery bags.
“Paper. Got to protect the environment. Did you catch anything?” he added politely.
She shook her head. “The blues were feeding. You could see them. But they weren’t taking our lures.”
Fieldstone nodded.
She loaded the final item into the last paper bag and rang up Fieldstone’s credit card. “My husband says you’ll give Islanders a break on club membership. Is that right?”
“That’s the current thinking,” said Fieldstone.
“He plans to vote for your golf course.” She ripped the credit-card receipt from the cash register and handed it to him. “Me, I haven’t decided yet.”
“I hope you vote to approve it.” Fieldstone signed his receipt and loaded the grocery bags into the cart.
“I always read the Enquirer, especially letters to the editor. Some people say there’ll be too much fertilizer.”
“Doesn’t have to be that way,” said Fieldstone. “A lot of people are misinformed. Tell you what, next time I come by here, I’ll bring you some brochures.”
“Give me several and I’ll hand them out.”
Fieldstone made a note to himself on the back of his receipt.
“Whether I vote for your golf course or not, I know you’re a good man, Mr. Fieldstone, whatever people say.”
Fieldstone glanced at her name tag. “Thank you, Sarah.”
He wheeled the cart out to his car and stowed the grocery bags in the back. The pickup truck that had been parked next to him was gone. He thought briefly about what he could do to counteract the effects of the bumper stickers that were appearing all over the Island and the anti—golf course letters to the editor. As he closed the tailgate he decided the best tactic was to keep quiet. Let Colley Jameson write his pro-golf editorials and screen his reporters’ articles. The Enquirer was still respected by Islanders, although lately Colley seemed to be losing some of his influence.
Fieldstone returned the
cart to the shelter of the store’s overhang, then drove to Oak Bluffs along the narrow strip of land that separated Sengekontacket Pond from the sound. On both sides of the road wild roses bloomed profusely, and he breathed in the heady scent. He felt younger than he had in years. This promised to be a good weekend.
He kept his boat, a forty-foot Hatteras sportsfisherman, in the Oak Bluffs harbor and as Sarah at the checkout counter had guessed, he was going out for the weekend, but not with his wife. Audrey was off Island, attending a garden club meeting in Boston.
Two dock stewards, high school kids he remembered from last year, helped him unload the wine and the groceries onto his boat, and he tipped both of them.
“Thanks, Mr. Fieldstone. Thanks a lot,” said Chuck, a tall muscular blond.
“Need anything else, Mr. Fieldstone?” asked Curtis, short, stocky, and dark.
“That’ll be all, thanks. I’m going out with a fishing buddy, a woman friend.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Fieldstone. Good luck.” The two dock stewards sauntered down the boardwalk that led to the harbormaster’s shack and disappeared from sight.
Fieldstone stowed the groceries below deck, a couple of bottles of wine in the ice chest along with the perishables, the rest of his supplies in lockers behind the galley sink. He filled his stove with propane and stored the container underneath. He checked the bedding in the V-berth. Freshly laundered sheets, a queen-size fleece blanket, and a new double sleeping bag, in case the weather turned cool.
He was checking the head to make sure the stewards had cleaned it thoroughly and had replaced soap and toilet paper when he heard her low voice calling from the dock.
“Anyone on board?”
Fieldstone scrambled up on deck to greet her, a tall elegant woman in her forties with shiny dark hair cut short in back, longer in front. She wore no makeup. She didn’t need it. Her face was milky pale, and her dark almond-shaped eyes seemed huge. She, too, was wearing boat shoes and jeans, and she carried a canvas satchel.
“Permission to board?” She smiled and handed the satchel up to him. “What an awful name, S’Putter.”
The Paperwhite Narcissus Page 1
